We feel bad saying it, actually, because Bill is an incredibly gifted and skilled politician (we've seen him work a room, he's superhuman) and he meant well but his presidency, while on the whole a slight success, was kind of a mess. The economy was stewarded well and foreign policy was mostly responsible. But it also set up the Republican Revolution and devolved into a surreal farce that took up the entirety of 1998 and drove everyone mad and exacerbated the culture wars and led right to eight years of Bush, sort of.

And for a while, it looked like Clinton's greatest legacy would be his political acumen and his new and improved centrist DLC, the organization that would provide the keys to the next Democratic victory. Well. In 2000 they got out-lawyered in Florida, in 2004 they couldn't eke out a slim victory from a divided elctorate, in the in 2008 primaries Hillary got beat, handily, by a charismatic nobody with a slim record.

Come the general election, Obama went with a modified version of Howard Dean's 50 state strategy, expanding the map instead of focusing on two or three battlegrounds at any cost. He didn't reach out to Bill in any real way and didn't bitch when Bill didn't reach out to him. There's probably not room for Bill or Hillary in his cabinet, as much as a Bill Clinton Supreme Court nomination would be hilarious.

And this means, basically, that the Clinton era has ended. He shoved the party to the right, yes, but it remains to be seen how long that rightward shift will last in a nation that might be trending left, economically at least.

It's kinda sad, really, but Bill does still have his private jets full of models. All Hillary gets is her stupid Senate seat she didn't even want.

Fast-forward half-a-decade, and we find the deposed emperor perhaps not lacking clothes, but certainly sporting a tattered worn-down version of his previous robes. The buzzwords these days are: old, crabby, overpaid, chokers, and most importantly, losers. Yes, we did get the memo on the five-game sweep of the Sawx. And we know they still win their fair share of regular season games. But that only emphasizes the point, used to be the regular season was a formality for the Yankees, every season they were given automatic VIP passes to Club Playoffs. Now they have to stand in line and hope to get in with the rest of the herd.

Rolling with the rest of the pack wouldn't be so bad if, like the rest of the pack, the NY Yankees paid standard retail prices for their wares. But no, the Yankees, and their two-hundred million dollar payroll, almost double the amount of any other team, prefer to pay designer dollars for K-mart production. Like secret clubs and Gawker, the Yankees are the epitome of overhyped and overpriced New York egomania (yes beloved reader, even at the cost of free we question our value to you). And in true New York style, the Yankees find a sucker to foot the bill, namely the fans. Yes those obstinate obnoxious Bronx Bomber fans who have yet to let the air out of their chest-puffery, despite having over five years since their last title to do so.

Look around you Yankees fans, Rome is crumbling. Randy Johnson, Yankee Stadium, even the owner himself appears to be reaching end-of-days. At the recent ground-breaking for the new stadium, George Steinbrenner III, the notorious micromanaging blowhard who never met a press conference he couldn't dominate, only complained of the heat, and could barely muster an acknowlegement, "It's a pleasure to give this to you people. Enjoy the new stadium. I hope it's wonderful." Hmmm doesn't sound like he's planning to stick around for the grand opening. We're not surprise, because like us, he must know the New York Yankees are already over.

And that's just the media industry.

New York City is over. It's a city with nowhere to go but up, and each up it goes it only gets uglier. (When we speak of New York City here, we are speaking of Manhattan, which is the only real New York. When you mail a letter to another borough you're mailing it to Brookyln, New York, or Forest Hills, New York, aren't you? Bitch and moan all you want about the vibrant culture of Williamsburg or the ethnic mosaic of Astoria, but let's face it: Unless you're on the big island, you don't count for shit. This kind of charming snobbery is another reason New York is finished, but we digress.) We've got a billionaire mayor but too many people squeaking by on the meager wages they earn folding your laundry or scraping the remains of your hundred dollar foie gras burger from its gilt-edged plate. Our infrastructure is a joke. Five years after terrorist attacks, the hole in the ground downtown is still so gaping that even this country's living embodiment of municipal incompetence feels free to make fun of us. Thirty years after the debut of The Ramones, those ridiculous haircuts are still the height of fashion. And don't get us started on the Meatpacking District.

Right now, as you read this, millions of kids around the world are thinking, I'm going to grow up and move to New York, where people will understand me. Those kids are douchebags, but, more importantly, they're right: They will be understood by the douchebags already here. They will also be resented, backstabbed, and made fun of for their unfamiliarity with the ways of the city by people who have conveniently forgotten their own, slightly less recent, unfamiliarity. New York is, at this point, a giant recycling factory, unable to contribute anything new to the culture while proclaiming that the latest remix is actually a bold step in a new direction. Our music is a joke. Our museums cost too much and challenge too little. Our theater, the great white way that supposedly marks another notch in the superiority bracelet we all wear around our wrists, offers either appalling fringe material that wouldn't pass muster in Muskogee, or melodies so nondescript they make one long for the coma-inducing saccharinity of mid-period Lloyd Webber. Broadway as currently composed is primarily an occasional employment plan for B-list celebrities who are between failed sitcom pilots. Our great opera house is a mess; our most famous concert hall is built on top of the subway. Which is not terrible in and of itself, in that when you're at Carnegie Hall, at least you're not in the subway, that overheated mass of teeming humanity which seems to exist primarily to educate us in the ways of hating of all races, not just the ones our parents carefully taught us to despise.

We could go on, but what's the point? You know it as well as we do; New York is broken, and it's not going to get better. Sure, you may deny it. Your ire may be up. "The greatest city in the world," you may be yelling. (Also, the last city to get any sort of public restroom system; apparently the stench of hobo excrement is just too appealing for us to do anything about.) "If you hate it so much," you say, "why not move somewhere else?"

Read our screed over again. Then remember: We write Gawker. Where else in the world would we live but somewhere so utterly already over?

Then here we are, ten years later, and you find a copy of Vice on the counter at a downtown boutique that sells only three styles of leather boots, two nylon backpacks studded with industrial rivets, and a pearl inlay mini-dildo, and your instinctive first reaction is: They're still shoveling this thing out the door?

The Vice branding push hasn't been limited to the free mag. You got Vice shops, plus various attempts at TV, movie, and record deals, not to mention the Vice guidebooks and a standalone DOs and DON'Ts tome. The Vice "lifestyle" requires constant novelty of offense, whether it's sexual, racial, social, or aesthetic. Trouble is, this strong drink ruins you for the binge — it only takes an issue or two to inoculate against the shock. Then you'll find yourself skipping the text entirely, skimming the photos, and tossing the whole mess in less than three minutes. The fact that McInnes and his successors at Vice pride themselves on playing the role of bohemian champions means they'll say anything to anyone just to get a reaction, and in this way they've pranked many an unsuspecting square or clueless reporter. They'll say whatever they can against the prevailing opinions of whoever they're speaking to, meaning that anything they say can be funny, but none of it means much. And if you already know their mission statement, where's the rest of the joke? Rather than the bohemian terrorist Vice wants to be, it ends up reading like a celebration of its own hedonism. You're merely supposed to congratulate them on having such a great time. Nothing wrong with that, but all it finally proves is that vice is much more enjoyable to practice than to read about.

Secret clubs speak to the worst desire of New Yorkers: the desire to know just a little more than the other guy. These places are by now clich ; it generally takes a week after UrbanDaddy tells you about this cool spot that they can't name until the Times starts giving you instructions on whose name to check at the front. The only people who win in this game are the ones who own the joints, and even then the burst of attention is fleeting; someone else is opening a new secret spot in an abandoned factory that formerly manufactured miniature Statue of Liberty figurines a week later.

We've had it with secret clubs, with every sick, sorry thing they represent. You know what's exclusive? The society of ALS-sufferers; why don't you join them if you want to feel different? The next time someone you know suggests that you join them at "this little place that no one's ever heard of owned by two urologists from Secaucus and the guy who plays Turtle on 'Entourage'," we suggest that you shove their Sidekick down their pretentious, status-desiring throats and come join the rest of us for a beer at the Blarney Stone. You'll be doing everyone a favor.

They've all been murdered after a night of drinking, and we've all shaken our heads and clucked over the horrifying news. But it's not like any of these cases have instilled a newfound sense of fear in smart New York women, nor is anyone going to drink a drop less because of the circumstances. And yet? They haunt the living shit out of us.

Now we've got Bloomberg grandiloquently signing new nightlife legislation, as if that's going to subvert nature's course. If a girl wants to get hammered, she will do so. There's no predicting what will happen once the blackout kicks in, and unless we've got some solution to the deeper societal ills that lead bouncers and pimps to rape and kill young women, nobody can stop this. It's just going to keep happening, increasingly awful each time. And then the local tabs will wring out their underwear over our collective consciousness, causing a three-day freakout that, in the end, will have absolutely no impact.

Maybe it's time someone started murdering the drunk men.

Sure, we've been just as guilty as anyone in the past, but we'll join the chorus calling for this phrase's retirement. Yes, we're well aware of the metatextual implications of declaring "jumping the shark" to be "already over," but what do you know — there is some fruit hanging so low that even we won't stoop to pick it. (At least for now.) So let's mutually agree that anything — direct expression of the same thought, reasoned explanation of root causes, or just simple gutter profanity — is better than this creaking, played, and busted piece of pop culture feces. Just don't say it. Not even in jest. Not with a clever post-post-modern twist. Not spiffed up and remixed with some other meme. Just stop. You're hurting America. And there are many other ways to do that without sounding like such an ass.

[Via Jewish Conscience]
Earlier: Already Over: Jews

And yeah, sure, she's the first woman to lead a newscast, and that's great — can't wait to see what she's wearing! For decades, news anchors were all of a type for a reason — people wanted their news dispensed by a grimly serious paterfamilias who saw all, knew all, and carefully selected just what you needed to hear, and how. If he ever cracked a smile, it was an indulgent smile, letting you know it was now permissible to feel OK about America for a moment or two. We don't need that level of reassurance anymore, but even the aging though spendy segment of the population that still watches the evening news doesn't need an anchor who goes on a listening tour. News anchors are talking heads, not listening heads. We would have been more than happy to give Couric every chance if her campaign of show-prep destruction hadn't already made us so, so tired of looking at her face and hearing her voice. We never watched her on Today because we sleep too late, and now that she's on in the evenings, we'll just have to hit the bars too early.

We're kidding; we still have that boss. (At least until he reads this.) But today's article in the Times about fame and its seekers struck a chord with us: We know way too many people who are desperate to get on TV, desperate to be in the magazines, desperate to have their faces somewhere, anywhere. Even Starz.

But you know what? Fuck fame. As Liz Smith points out today in her column about Paris Hilton (and the fact that we just typed that phrase should give you a pretty good indication of how incredibly "snake disappearing up its own asshole" the theme has become), you don't really need to do anything these days, apart from sucking cock on camera, to be famous. "Paris Hilton is exactly what the 21st century wants. A statement without explanation." We hate to say it, but that hits the nail right on its shiny head. We're as guilty as anyone in perpetuating the illusion of celebrity, but, c'mon, can't we do better than this? Stop wanting to be famous or caring about people who are. It's so whenever-Angelina-had-Brad's-baby ago. Read a fucking book (and not that Nicole Richie one, you cretins) and forget about it. Fame is already over.

Earlier: Already Over: Gawker

We're not talking about Judaism overall (that's still rock solid); this is about the Jewish culture, and the culture's long been co-opted by the goyim. There was a time when being a member of the tribe helped you work the system and climb the ladder; nowadays, even all the non-Jews are so Jewish that the ladder's collapsed under their collective weight. Look around you. Everyone New York is Jewish, even the anti-Semites — especially the anti-Semites! There's got to be an anti-Semite Jewish mafia out there. You just know it.

Yes, we know that this item offends practically everyone who matters — but that's just the point, isn't it? Not only are we everywhere, but we also have to get all Abe Foxman about every. little. thing. Jews have been running the show for so long now: we've got New York, Hollywood, Boca — isn't it time to relax a little? Even Jesus knew it was time to move on, and that was 2000 years ago.

Earlier: Remembering When We Cared About 'Tabloid Wars'

*If, in our refusal to watch, we missed any excellent Hud Morgan action, let us know. Thanks.

Why, there's peas! And beets! Calm down before you go further, because now it's time to learn all about lettuce. You know you can make salads with that shit? And dressings can "range from vegetables to croutons to nuts to (dried) fruit." What's not fresh: fresh fruit on salad, apparently. If you have any stamina left for more, then you can climax with "What's Fresh: Potatoes." That's right, they totally went there. Now there's no reason to begrudge a picayune subject, since that's what blogging's all about. But when you're seriously suggesting someone cross town to obtain a particular Yukon Gold, that better be a euphemism for some fantastic drugs.

What we're talking about is the reprehensible phenomenon of speaking in a teenybopper's pidgin English. If you really loved your best friend, you wouldn't reduce her to a "bestie." You can type "obvs" all you want, but the second you speak it, you're a caveman who can't handle long vowel sounds. "Totes" is a bag, not a substitute for "totally." "Obvi" sounds like some demented geometry term or, worse, like you're trying to land a role on The O.C. And if you actually say "natch" out loud, you're just a fucking idiot. Was that last suffix really too hard for you?

It just gets worse. There's even a growing number of fools — grown women! — who use the fake word "lylas," as in "love you like a sister." Which, if you want to sound like your junior-high yearbook, is like totes adorbs. K.I.T., A.S.S., S.T.F.U.

Should this word-shortening continue, it won't be long before we're reduced to cutesy grunting. So let's head this one off at the pass, shall we? Speak like a goddamn adult already.

Remember the beginning of 2003, back before everyone in your bowling league had a blog? If you were internet savvy or otherwise connected, you were hearing buzz about a gal named Liz Spiers and a website called Gawker.com, which took a jaundiced look at New York media and society. It was written with the kind of acid-tongued contempt not seen since early-period Spy, and Spiers became synonymous with snark. A year later she was snapped up by New York magazine, only to be replaced by Choire Sicha, whose distaste for the gross inequalities of life in the city broadened the site's focus while maintaining its original goal of chronicling the absurdities of the city's major industries in ways that other organizations were too afraid to do. Gawker was New York media's must-read, constantly clicked on to see what we were going to say next.

Well, that was all a long time ago.

When's the last time Gawker was relevant or interesting? Sure, we ticked off George Clooney, that's got to be worth something. But let's be honest: The site is as stale as, well, late-period Spy. The formula is so obvious now that every child over the age of seven is acquainted with it: Read article in New York Times, create unfunny Photoshop related to article, use opaque title to describe it, post. (Okay, that's Balk's formula; Coen doesn't use as much Photoshop and her sources are more likely to be Us Weekly or People. We have no idea what the hell Mohney does, but if you see a YouTube clip from 1989, it's a pretty safe bet that he dug it up.) At this point, do you really want to hear another joke about the size of Nick Denton's head^* or read another labored construction involving "our [unfunny adjectival description] sibling [name of other Gawker Media site]?" Frankly, everything you see here is going to be up at Jossip five minutes later, but without the annoying gigantic typeface that our genius designers have decided to install in a bizarre plan to drive traffic away. The novelty of learning that Mike Myers dragged his hockey stick into some LES dive again has surely worn off by now. Even the New York Press is running a column modeled on our snark + sense of superiority + air of insiderness motif. The Press! (We finally found a copy that wasn't covered in tramp piss, and it's pretty much what you'd expect.) How much more played out can you get?

Gawker is finished, done, a clich . We're even running features about motherhood in Brooklyn now, for Christ's sake! Andrew Krucoff must be rolling over in his grave. (Also tired: Krucoff jokes.) Whatever fondness you may have for this site exists purely as a function of nostalgia; we haven't been any good since July at the latest. In fact, if you're actually still reading this post, it's a sign that you're either so bored or lacking in discrimination that you'll read anything. Because, let's face it: Gawker? Already over.

^*Really, though, it's enormous. You can see it from space.