It’s not unreasonable to believe that the editors of The New York Times, despite the daily’s diminished influence, have been deluged with applicants for the op-ed columnist slot sadly vacated by the sensible John Tierney. Anyone who still reads The Times’ opinion section probably has a list of candidates who’d either balance Paul Krugman—the man novelty singer Napoleon XVI presciently had in mind with his 1966 hit “They’re Coming to Take Me Away”—or merely accelerate the paper’s leftist agenda. My quixotic suggestions would include Alicia Colon, Christopher Hitchens, P.J. O’Rourke, Nat Hentoff, Matt Welch, Chris Caldwell, Mark Steyn, Brendan Nyhan, Catherine Seipp, Jonah Goldberg, Cathy Young, Niall Ferguson and, just for kicks, the ghost of Doug Sahm.

There is one Times reporter/comedian-in-training, Mark Leibovich, who appears to be auditioning for the job by aping Maureen Dowd’s early ’90s front page stories when she mixed celebrity, cattiness and snippets of news (real or imagined) and was promoted to the page that’s still considered by some as valuable journalistic real estate.

On Nov. 22, Leibovich, currying favor with the bosses who lament Ned Lamont’s Senate loss in Connecticut, wrote a profile of Marshall Wittmann, Joe Lieberman’s new spokesman. His second paragraph: “To say that Mr. Wittmann defies classification is like saying Paris Hilton defies modesty. But in his peripatetic soul, he is a Washington original, a man without a political country going to work for a senator without a political party.”

The day after the midterm elections, Leibovich led his story with the sort of silliness that was once Dowd’s exclusive province (although The Washington Post’s Dana Milbank has competed for the floor). He wrote: “It was one of those once-a-decade days in Washington where news, rumor and recrimination crackled in every direction. But the wounded duck at the center of it all, President Bush, offered by far the day’s most mesmerizing spectacle. He looked worn at his must-see midday news conference, in need of a haircut, good-night’s sleep, better makeup job,  hug, vacation in Crawford—or some combination thereof. The grooves across his forehead were dark and articulated, his voice slightly hoarse. He wore a maroon tie, the color of blood.”

Although the reporter resisted an undeniable urge to call the pink-slipped Defense Secretary “Rummy”—that would just be too obvious, even for an obviously ambitious man—everything else that’s apparently required of a laugh-a-minute Times columnist was there. Never mind that his talk of Bush’s post-mortem on the GOP’s crummy midterm election results was hardly a “once-a-decade days in Washington,” since the media seem to proclaim such a sensation every three months or so. Leibovich played Floyd the Barber from “The Andy Griffith Show” (haircut jab), Oprah or Dr. Phil or a tree-lover (the need for a “hug”), travel agent and a Bergdorf cosmetics clerk (the “better makeup” nonsense).

It reminded me of a remark Briton Hadden—Time’s co-founder and the subject of a worthy new book, The Man Time Forgot—made about tabloids in the early 1920s, although Leibovich’s was tepid in comparison. According to author Isaiah Wilner, this is what Hadden’s fledgling weekly had to say about the audience of a new tab published by bodybuilder Bernarr Macfadden, The Evening Graphic: “Gum-chewers, shop girls, taxi drivers, street sheiks, bummers, idlers took one look, recognized it as their kind of publication, fished out two pennies each, bought, read.”

In a plug for incoming Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid on Nov. 10—no mention of questionable land deals in Nevada or gamey Christmas bonuses, that would just be too gauche—Leibovich waited until the third paragraph before going all Dowd on Times readers. “‘Britney Spears,’ Mr. Reid said, shaking his head. ‘She loses a little weight, and now she’s getting all cocky about things.’ He added, ‘Britney has gotten her mojo back.’”

Whether Times publisher Arthur Sulzberger has gotten his own mojo back is far from certain, but that’s not Leibovich’s immediate concern.

One more for the road: In a Nov. 5 piece about Tennessee’s close Senate race, Leibovich gets into the swing right away, writing, “Control of the Senate is at stake, and Cybill Shepherd is sitting in the front row at a church rally in Memphis, blowing a kiss to Bill Clinton. Mr. Clinton is about to say nice things about Representative Harold E. Ford Jr., the Democratic Senate candidate [who lost], but first he has to say how much he loves Ms. Shepherd’s movies and how he always looks for them when he is home alone at night, channel surfing.” We won’t know how much Leibovich loves Mr. Hillary until he takes over for Tierney, but the guess here is a lot.

Not that The Times is entirely without humor. Reporter Alex Mindlin, in a Nov. 19 “City” piece about the fade-out of video rental stores—now, there’s an original topic—captured the funniest quote I’ve seen in the paper for years. Gary Dennis, the proprietor of Movie Place, who’s quitting the business because of an increase in rent and diminished interest, told someone on the phone in the presence of Mindlin, “No, I’m not going to be in this industry anymore. The industry’s dying. I’m going to sell drugs to junior high schoolers.”

More often than not, of course, jabs at satire in The Times fall as flat as David Ortiz’s bid to win the American League’s MVP award. (By the way, this Bosox fan thinks Derek Jeter was kind of jobbed by the voters who chose Justin Morneau.

Yes, Jeter’s Gold Glove trophy was a joke, and the myth that the Yanks were decimated by injuries is tiresome, but who else in 2006 made opposing pitchers more nervous than Jeter with a game on the line?) Clyde Haberman, filing a Metro story on Black Friday, appears to be an ally of Charlie Rangel, who wants to re-instate compulsory military conscription, and makes fun of Bush and Rudy Giuliani, who suggested Americans try to resume normal lives as best possible after 9/11.

Haberman writes, in an article headlined “A Battle for Freedom at the Mall,”: “Today is the most important day of the year for patriotic New Yorkers, the day they can show that they have what it takes … New Yorkers who truly love their country will hit the stores till their credit cards beg for mercy … [Sporting goods stores] sell shirts in camouflage colors: desert or jungle, take your pick. For $14.99, you can feel like a G.I. Joe or Jane without risking the dangers of the real deal. What better way to embody the patriotism of Black Friday?”

I can think of one: enjoying the restoration of Christmas carols that are in the background this year at stores, most notably at the big-box joints that Borat liberals berate in conversation but often shop at in private. Ho, ho, ho and a bottle of rum for the guys and gals who operate Wal-Mart, Macy’s, Kmart, Walgreens, Target and all the other stores that don’t think a loop of “Silent Night,” “O, Come All Ye Faithful” and “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing” will mortally offend the souls who don’t celebrate Christmas.

My kids, who’ve grown up in the Age of Kwanzaa, were surprised to learn that as a teenager—in the Age of Aquarius—I would spend a few evenings each December walking around the neighborhoods of Huntington with a pack of friends, knock on doors and sing some Christmas carols. It didn’t even occur to any of us, including the Jewish kids who sometimes comprised a majority of the chorus, that anything was strange about this. It was simply a fun activity, a chance to flirt (if not partake in “rainbow parties”), gossip and maybe get into a snowball fight. And if one of the crew kept a flask in his coat pocket to spice up the spiced cider offered by delighted parents after the brief songfest, so much the better.