Sometimes we can be a little harsh on certain figures in the public eye. In our quest to entertain you, we occasionally go too far, and we do feel genuinely bad about that. So we've decided to offer some of our most vilified targets the opportunity to respond on the site. So far only one has taken up the invitation. We print his response after the jump.
I'd first like to thank the proprietors of Gawker for allowing me this platform in which to address their recent scurrilous mockery of my stature; it bespeaks a certain generosity of spirit to which I heretofore had not associated with the institution.
That being said, I'd like to convey how deeply affected I've been by this site's malicious mockery of late. Being Mario Batali's schlong is a trying task by any account; constant criticism from untalented Web types only makes my labors more complicated to perform. I'm not unfeeling, you know: In fact, if medical literature is anything to go by, I'm the most sensitive organ that there is.
The rampant speculation as to my length and girth has proved to be more than a worrisome distraction: It has so sapped my vigor and confidence that I've found myself unable to attend to the task at hand during recent, unscheduled "drop ins." Being forced to rise to the occasion in the presence of what is clearly the world's biggest Petri dish of STD's is heavy weather under normal circumstances: Imagine making the effort while a sweaty, overweight redhead shouts curses at you in a regional Italian dialect that is all the more offensive when one considers it's not even his native language. Even my little blue ally offers no succor: I lay limp, defeated, forced to wallow in my own misery whilst being subjected to demos from what's got to be the least anticipated forthcoming album in history.
Gawker readers, I make no great claims for my height or circumference. Quick comparisons I've made of my colleagues (who are frequently whipped out by angry line chefs during kitchen disputes) prove me to be of average size for a John Thomas, perhaps even slightly above the going rate around the tip. It does not speak well of this organ that the only way it can voice its dismissal of one of the great restaurateurs of our age is to suggest that his appendage is lacking in manly qualities. I demand that you immediately desist from perpetuating this tired - and incorrect - assumption. It hurts me, it hurts Mario, but, most of all, it hurts you.
Besides, everyone knows if you want to knock Batali, you make fun of the balls. Those things are like new spring peas. They're tiny, I'm telling ya. Tiny.
Thank you for your time.