Zero-Based Journalism
You can find just about anything on Google. Except this.

By Gene Weingarten
Sunday, May 27, 2007

It's pretty hard to find a phrase or expression that is not out there somewhere on the Web. I know. I've tried. No matter how unlikely it may seem that anyone has ever put certain words together, someone, somewhere, probably has. When I Googled the exact phrase "Santa Claus nude," I got 278 hits.

It's tricky. For example, I tried Googling "unintelligent Jew," which not only denies a ubiquitous cultural stereotype but uses an unusual adjective to do so. I figured I was safe, but this is what came right up: "I have yet to meet an unintelligent Jew."

More failures followed. After a while, I got mad and decided to do something about it.

Want a phrase that doesn't appear on Google? Try searching for the Magritte-inspired, epistemologically impossible sentence "This phrase doesn't appear on Google." You should find only one hit, and that hit is from the very paragraph you are reading. When I wrote this, before it was archived, that sentence was nowhere on the Web.

Voila. The assault begins.

When a phrase cannot be found on Google, I call it a Googlenope. Once a Googlenope is discovered and written about, it is no longer a Googlenope.

Every single exact phrase that follows could not be found on the Web before today:


Queen Elizabeth's buttocks.

Varsity pinochle.

Caviar 'n' taters.

. . . much to Paris Hilton's embarrassment . . .

I was helped by the federal government.

I (heart) my zygote.

. . . that nappy-headed ho, Barbara Bush.

Next, boil the toast . . .

If you take off your bra, I'm calling the cops.

Jesus loves you for your money.

Rove should just shut up and look pretty.

I believe dust mites have souls.

This lobster must have been Roman Catholic.

Plush Osama doll.

I'm fixin' to solve me the Shimura-Taniyama conjecture.

The best pork chops in Jerusalem.

Tiffani Suarez.

Antwaan Rothschild.

Rajneesh Roosevelt III.

Billy Bob Nussbaum.

Mohammed Ciccolini.

Moishe Goebbels.

Please accept these underpants as collateral . . .

I owe my life to unprotected sex.

I'm going to be concentrating on my home-wrecking now.

Bad, bad Leroy Moskowitz.

Thor adjusted his mascara.

Richard Cheney in '08.

Nelson Mandela is a doo-doo head.


My grandchildren are so ugly.

The Iraqi Regis Philbin.

Hey, this tastes like aardvark.

Laura Bush's secret tattoo.

I'll take Deaths by Autoerotic Asphyxia for $400, Alex.

Hot cheese sundae.

Cancer, heart disease and zits.

"I'm Stephen Hawking and I'm a Capricorn."

Pizza with Condoleezza.

Dogs playing poker and mah-jongg.

The dainty Hillary Clinton.

Man-boob implants.

Acid klezmer band.

Wearing only a codpiece and a sombrero.

Cancer of the bellybutton.

The yodeling librarian.

George W. Bush's subtlety.

Sonnets by Elmer.

Insufficient cellulite.

Lou Dobbs's hash pipe.

The sensual feel of the speculum.

Sören "Porky" Kierkegaard.

The billionaire manicurist.

I should note that I sought, and used, the help of Post colleagues in assembling these lines. Several of my co-workers dryly suggested that I would find zero Google hits for "Gene Weingarten is hot." Actually, they were wrong. There was exactly one. Unfortunately, it began this way: "I know it's sick and unnatural, but I kind of think . . ."

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