I hate Charles Taylor. And at long last, so does Salon.

I hate Charles Taylor. I've got a long history of hating Charles Taylor. And at long last, at long, sweet last, Salon has come to agree with me.

He's out! Charles Taylor is out at Salon! Ding, dong, the bitch is dead!

I was alerted to this joyous news by Roger Ebert's Answer Man column this week (the column addresses new Salon editor Joan Walsh's introductory letter to the readership last month, which I had not seen). Ebert is as disgruntled by the news as I am over the moon. He notes that he and Taylor are both members of the National Society of Film Critics, "which has sent e-mails racing around its membership expressing concern about the loss of Taylor and the trend toward de-emphasizing criticism in favor of inane pop 'news.'" If I were Ebert, I wouldn't be so quick to throw stones; it is very difficult to grant credibility to someone complaining about "idiotic celebrity coverage, gossip, hype" in the film world, when that someone was doing red carpet interviews at the Oscars exactly one week ago.

Walsh says the decision to let Charles Taylor go under her new editorialship (if that's a word) was due to the fact that she could not justify employing three film critics. I would suggest that Taylor never counted as a film critic, but I'd be afraid of changing her mind. (I would also suggest that describing Stephanie Zacharek and Andrew O'Hehir as film critics is similarly exceedingly generous.)

This is a thrilling victory! I will celebrate the anniversary of this day with the unbridled frenzy of St. Patrick's Day or Mardi Gras. But it also leaves me a little empty. Who shall I hate now? Upon whom shall I direct my great vengeance and furious anger, with the goal that they never be heard from again? How shall I ever muster up such personal antipathy again?

Oh, who am I kidding? I've got a list a mile long. First place is split between Whoopi Goldberg and Dr. Phil. Pray with me that my crusade succeeds, people. Pray with me.