Always Be Closing.
This one is pretty good, but the all-time comical New York Times correction on a pop cultural matter is this beauty from 2006:
An article on Sept. 17 about the abundance of satire in American culture referred incorrectly to an episode of "South Park." In it, the character Cartman tricks another child into eating his own parents in a bowl of chili; Cartman himself does not eat them.
As it happens, I have a screener of season two. But unfortunately the three people that you need to murder to get it are Peter Dinklage, Emilia Clarke and George R.R. Martin.
Eat, Poop, Sleep. Someone should make a movie.
Yeah, he actually managed to get the names wrong on 3 of his 11 heroes. In addition to completely flubbing Grantland Rice, he misspelled both Finley Peter Dunne and H.L. Mencken.
This is not a comment.
Sounds like someone was listening to Journey's "Separate Ways" #tips
This reminds me of the time Debra Gibson tried to kneecap her hairstylist on board the Orient Express.
Taken 2: Electric Boogaloo
@SailorTrash: If this had gone to trial, there was always the risk that the witnesses could have been rubbed out.
There is some truly legitimate short-burst writing talent demonstrated by NYC vandals.
Umm, that little line at the bottom of the Enquirer story that says "Published on: 02/10/2010." . . .
That might be a hint that this story was published sometime last year . . . maybe sometime in the first half of February . . .
That might be a hint that this story was published sometime last year . . . maybe sometime in the first half of February . . .
@Master of the Universe: that is why Eliot Spitzer's arrest was complete bullshit
Actually, Spitzer was never arrested or charged in connection with his escort activities.
Actually, Spitzer was never arrested or charged in connection with his escort activities.
@AMessageToRudy: Totally agree. It would go something like this:
We are not experienced or talented lovers. We are not "traditional" sex partners. Hell, we've never even given a woman an orgasm! Don’t try to compare our cunnilingus with your favorite sensitive lover who has been eating you out since young adulthood. Ours is likely not better, just different. Our tiny erection is not striving to replicate the one that your well-hung ex-lover used to make. His is better, and next time he makes it we’d love to be over (hiding in the closet) as you enjoy it. We are not attempting to create a fusion, nor replicate classic sexual technicques. We are simply inspired by the sex itself, and how it makes us feel. This is our homage, our adoration, and our inspiration – this is our 3am booty call – our version anyways.
We are not experienced or talented lovers. We are not "traditional" sex partners. Hell, we've never even given a woman an orgasm! Don’t try to compare our cunnilingus with your favorite sensitive lover who has been eating you out since young adulthood. Ours is likely not better, just different. Our tiny erection is not striving to replicate the one that your well-hung ex-lover used to make. His is better, and next time he makes it we’d love to be over (hiding in the closet) as you enjoy it. We are not attempting to create a fusion, nor replicate classic sexual technicques. We are simply inspired by the sex itself, and how it makes us feel. This is our homage, our adoration, and our inspiration – this is our 3am booty call – our version anyways.
Well, you know Klinkenborg actually has written about some gritty, urban subjects. One that really sticks in my mind (ridiculous, but still in many ways beautiful) was his elegy to the Fresh Kills landfill from 1999. Here's the concluding bit:
The wind blows across Fresh Kills, bearing away odors that would look, if visible, like the fractal stain petroleum leaves in water. What the wind snatches, it tries to carry off. Mostly it snatches plastic bags, the common denominator of consumerism. On the next breezy day in midtown, think for a moment of the sound the wind must be making out at Fresh Kills, the sharp applause rising from a world of plastic bags with one leg caught in the debris.
But sometimes the wind tears the bags free, and that's what you see in this photograph by Stephen Wilkes -- plastic bags and the odd sheet of newsprint trapped by the wind against a chicken-wire fence at Fresh Kills to keep debris from blowing over Staten Island or into the water. This is the catch of the day. A flight of birds caught in mesh. A mosaic of trash.
The wind blows across Fresh Kills, bearing away odors that would look, if visible, like the fractal stain petroleum leaves in water. What the wind snatches, it tries to carry off. Mostly it snatches plastic bags, the common denominator of consumerism. On the next breezy day in midtown, think for a moment of the sound the wind must be making out at Fresh Kills, the sharp applause rising from a world of plastic bags with one leg caught in the debris.
But sometimes the wind tears the bags free, and that's what you see in this photograph by Stephen Wilkes -- plastic bags and the odd sheet of newsprint trapped by the wind against a chicken-wire fence at Fresh Kills to keep debris from blowing over Staten Island or into the water. This is the catch of the day. A flight of birds caught in mesh. A mosaic of trash.
@Mr. B.: Wait wait wait.
LOLCait is a guy??
LOLCait is a guy??
"and it was books do" indeed
This reminds me of recent article from America's most reliable news source: New Terminator Movie Brings J.D. Salinger Out of Hiding
