Writing is an art — but not all art is good. Some of it is downright awful.
This brings us to Maureen Dowd, who has perfected the formula for the lazy political column. Her writing leans on a handful of snide remarks, pop culture name-drops, and a profound sense of self-satisfaction. Over the past decade, she has become obsessed with Donald Trump, milking his presidencies for an endless stream of the same recycled, sarcastic drivel.
Her latest piece, “Trump is Rootin’ for Putin,” is a perfect example. As most sane Americans know, Dowd has always preferred cheap rhymes over cutting-edge analysis — but this op-ed might be her most cringeworthy effort yet. The piece reads less like the work of a veteran political columnist and more like a rejected title for an SNL cold open. It isn’t insightful; it’s just another installment in Dowd’s long-running performance of eye-rolling disdain for those who refuse to side with the left. The argument — if it can even be called that — boils down to a toddler-level worldview: Zelensky good. Putin bad. Trump bad. Trump speak Putin. Trump very bad. Trump + Putin = very, very bad.
No nuance, no context, no attempt to wrestle with the complexities of geopolitics or history. But this is how Maureen Dowd likes to operate.
The paradox of her career is worth highlighting. She is celebrated for her sharpness, yet her writing rarely, if ever, cuts deep. In “Bushworld: Enter at Your Own Risk,” she reduced George W. Bush’s presidency to a collection of anemic tales about his cowboy persona and Texas drawl. Although that was bad, her treatment of Barack Obama was considerably worse. In one of her more grotesque offerings, she excitedly compared him to Mr. Darcy from Pride and Prejudice, fawning over his cool detachment as though she were a lovestruck debutante scribbling in her diary. Instead of examining Obama’s policies, his political maneuvering, or even his leadership style, she turned him into a romantic lead, reducing the presidency to the level of an Austen novel — though not a good one. She gushed about his supposed charm and towering intellect. The writing, much like the writer herself, was completely divorced from the concerns of everyday Americans.
Then Trump arrived, and Dowd found her muse — the perfect villain for her brand of high school cafeteria politics. Her pathological preoccupation with him has been absolutely relentless, yet never — not once — enlightening. She has spent years turning his presidency into one extended Mean Girls analogy. Literally.
Recently, in “Musk’s Lost Boys and Trump’s Mean Girls,” Dowd took aim at the alliance between the president and the tech mogul, painting them as agents of chaos in government. She described Musk’s young team — the so-called “lost boys” — as dismantling federal agencies with no regard for their purpose. She compared Trump’s administration to Mean Girls, transforming serious politics into a teenage drama. The irony is rather apparent. Dowd has been doing this for way too long, essentially turning complex issues into childish punchlines.
And this is what separates her from a writer like Peggy Noonan, a veteran political columnist who has operated in the same domain as Dowd for decades. However, unlike Dowd, she has managed to retain both depth and dignity. The comparison isn’t just about them being two female writers of similar age. Both built their reputations in the pages of elite newspapers, both have covered presidencies from Reagan onward, and both have been fixtures in the national conversation for many years. Yet, while Noonan has maintained a sense of gravitas, an air of class, Dowd has remained relevant by being facetious and taking cheap jabs. A Wall Street Journal columnist and former speechwriter, Noonan understands the weight of words — how they shape minds, inspire movements, and define legacies. Her work carries real substance, a recognition that politics is more than just a soap opera for the smugly detached to mock from the sidelines. When she writes about America, she does so with a deep understanding of its traditions and fractures, of the weight of the moment. Dowd, on the other hand, approaches politics like a gossip columnist at a Manhattan cocktail party, reducing everything to a petty, knowing aside, an inside joke that no one actually finds funny.
Noonan can take a moment — Reagan’s farewell, 9/11, the decline of political decency — and craft something lasting, something that feels as though it belongs in the national archive. In contrast, Dowd will be remembered — if she is remembered at all — for trivial jabs that have already lost their relevance by the next news cycle.
In many ways, Dowd is a prime example of what happens when a writer stops caring about ideas and starts caring only about being clever. Her fans, too, have been trained to believe that cleverness, or the mere appearance of it, is enough — that a well-placed insult or a cutesy rhyme carries the same weight as sharp analysis. But it doesn’t. It never has.
That is why Noonan’s writing will endure, while Dowd’s will age like a stale late-night monologue — forgettable, uninspired, and, ultimately, irrelevant.
