The big news of the week (for me, what are "primaries"?) was Gossip Girl's epic stunner of an episode in which, in the thumping crazy final seconds, we discovered that newly pious Serena van der Woodsen was a murderer. Murder! Big news! The news today is, as it is every Friday, that, like a pack of crazed blond millionaires, you guys continue to slay us. (This is the worst introduction ever, I realize. But I'm all nerves about this "Summit" tonight and can't think straight.) So after the jump, find six of the week's best tippy-typing.
- From fiveinchtaint in Animal Sacrifices Still Popular Among Young Urbanites:
"I knew Rudolph was a fucking robot. Magic my ass." - Blitzen [Sheila's pick]
- From lawyergay in Starbucks Doesn't Have Any God Damn Lemons:
"To: Starbucks Executive VP for Global Strategy
From: lawyergay
Re: How to Cut Lemons
1. Grasp a knife with a "handshake" grip in your dominant hand, holding the lemon in the other.
2. Placing the blade perpendicular to the fruit, make repeated downward sawing motions until the lemon has been divided into two roughly equal halves.
3. Insert knife in eye." [Hamilton's pick]
- From Nunaurbiz in Woman Wants Six Figures For Alleged Lohan Coat Theft:
"FYI, in case anyone cares: The dead minks have voted and they want their old owner back."
- From CodePink in Symptoms of Hipsterdom Revealed:
"You talk loudly while your roommate is watching American Idol saying "This is like the apocalypse, the end of music itself" and then your roommate kindly reminds you of the "no talking during tv" rule. You apologize, half-heartedly and get another glass of leftover plum wine. You look out your window and see an old chair in the alley. It is the shittiest looking chair you have ever seen. You want it. You go to the alley. You pick up the chair. Suddenly, you notice there is a cat who has been hiding under the chair You pick up the cat. It bites you. The cat is rabid. Now so are you. You throw the cat in the garbage. Suddenly, you develop an aversion to water. You put a DON'T TAKE SHOWERS, YO sign on the bathroom door. You start drooling and snarling whilst waiting for the L train. This gets you a date with an Asian chick. On the date, you bite the very short Asian girl on the neck. She says "Kinky" but the next day she is throwing away her Brita as she is also rabid. You both start a band called RABID. Your ex-roommate hears about your gig at Galapagos. She goes to the gig, shoots you both with a rifle because you "needed to be put down", not because of the rabies, but because you're so FUCKING ANNOYING."
- From DonPardoCalrissian in "I Love the Ghetto": Bushwick Hipsters Explain Their Outfits:
" 'Are you taking my picture? I'm so glassily hip I don't even know what that means. My uncle's a unicorn and I came out of my mother's wee-wee.' "
- Your Party Pick this week goes to the always awe-inspiring InOtherNews..., who wove a scintillating tale of liquor and licentiousness in Saturday Night:
"Photography. A magical medium. For instance, did you really know what Aunt Thelma was doing in Boca Raton one glorious Friday night in 1964? The "accidental poke" from a local gasoline station attendant named Billy? It was more than that. The reverse peristalsis into the waste receptacle that forever sealed "Vomiting Vivian"'s nomenclatural fate? The top-shelf liquor collection, prized by your uncle Ted, that one night disappeared into a burlap sack, hurried out of the china cabinet and into a room in the Stark Feather Inn on Viola Drive? The carpet, said the housekeeping staff, was smartly saved from a terrible fate. The sheets, the pillows, the headboard, all imbued with the scent of sex, sweat and geriatry. The ceiling fan which blew coolly onto several naked buttocks thrusting up and down into the tepid, smoke-tinged air. Vivian, Billy and Thelma were the loudest that night, said the couple in Room 215, the lady in Room 219, the teenaged acoustic band in Room 117, and the visitors from Abu Dhabi in Room 317. Security guards visited several times that evening: the clatter of billy clubs and tin shields and ruffled shirts would cause the moans to pause; the banging to cease; the groans to subside. To the door, the guards would press their ears, then gently walk away. And the fucking, pure fucking, would resume. It was clear Vivian was happy: this was her birthday gift. But was she jealous of Thelma? Perhaps, because it was all over her that Billy came. An illustrious ejaculation, surpassed only by St. Helens' two decades later, and Washington State was so far away. So Vivian gave Billy no choice: he would have to come again.
Perhaps it was the lime slice she kept under her tongue. "To make it interesting," she said, "and because I want it to hurt a little." Billy delivered once more, and Vivian, usually of the fortitude of the schist that formed Manhattan Island, collapsed. The contents of her aged stomach churned, stirred perhaps by the salty burst: beef stroganoff, a quaff of Pabst, cherry Life Savers bought from the lobby gift shop. Thelma, realizing the great misfortune the carpet was about to suffer, thought to quickly position a trashbin at the foot of the bed. Vivian, doubled over, took a little while. In the meantime, Thelma, a little disgusted, a little emboldened, went to explore the selection of tonic. Billy, done, zipped up, buttoned a few, and noticed the man with the camera.
He toasted.
Thelma saw a friend outside the window.
Vivian hurled.
And the man with the camera, the unwitting artiste, captured a fleeting moment in history, preserving it for no-one in particular but you, my precious child. "
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Good work, everyone. Have lovely, hipster-free weekends.
Send an email to Richard Lawson, the author of this post, at richardl@gawker.com.
May 9, 2008 05:08 PM
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