Terrorism “expert” Norah Vincent now has her own weblog, Norah’s LogJam, a mess of a website at which anyone with a browser can stumble across what is sure to be a growing collection of incoherent and discursive Peggy Noonan-esque essays rejected by editors across the land.

Earlier this week, Vincent published an untitled “essay” of sorts that had been rejected by even the desperately copy-starved New York Sun for being “too rhetorical.” (A phrase Tapped accurately translates as meaning, “Get off the couch and do some actual reporting instead of stringing together vague platitudes.”)

“Enjoy,” Vincent exhorts readers. Yes. Enjoy such brilliant and insightful gems as these:

After the attacks of Sept. 11, writes Vincent, “Schadenfreude was everywhere, smiling on the face of every disaffected leftist intellectual and Islamist sympathizer. While pictures of the dead went up all over town, the professorate rejoiced. They were demonstrably right, you see, about those chickens called American foreign policy coming home to roost.”

To which Vincent adds: “Let the bored radicals rave, and in their ravings give us still more justification for our course of proactive action. The sickly quality of their mercy won’t restrain us.”

And this: “We are changed, but not in the cowering way some had hoped. Undeclared war came home to our front yards a year ago and, courtesy of cable news, it tramped through our living rooms as well. Reality hit hard that day, so hard that even Pearl Harbor seemed small by comparison, the fitful dream of this rude and much greater awakening.”

These three selections are just a sampling of the disaster Vincent thought worthy of publication. Fortunately for Vincent’s self-esteem, her blogging software informs us that “commenting [is] temporarily unavailable.”

Vincent’s recent career path remains a mystery, as does the esteem with which she is regarded in certain circles, albeit right-wing enclaves not known for maintaining particularly high standards.

Vincent is not an intellectual, she is not an original thinker, she performs virtually no reportage, and she isn’t even a good writer. Instead, Vincent’s pieces share a remarkable resemblance to the cloying compositions of high-school girls seeking to express their loftiest thoughts while utterly lacking the vocabulary to do so. Sounds like the recent work of a certain resident alien Brit we know who just happens to be a friend and ally of Vincent.