It's sad. We think the next big thing in New York should be home-slaughter! But here's the email from a certain Gil Boston (freshmeatny@gmail.com):

Dear Sir/Madam,
Unfortunately, we've been forced to temporarily suspend our service due to overwhelming interest. And the fact that Fresh Meats is a sophomoric April Fools' con job, courtesy of Thrillist. If this causes you to lose all hope of ever personally beheading a Cornish Game Hen, take heart: you can still forward Thrillist to friends — then tease the gullible ones mercilessly despite the fact that the 1st isn't until Sunday.

[Photo: Houston Zoo/Cute Overload]

As the Midtown sun hushed to a blurry light pollution, some of blogging's biggest celebrities, cough, lounged poolside. Rachel Sklar and her entire division of Eat the Press fembots stood poolside, fully clothed, wishing they were in the pool, scantily-clad and frolicking. Perched half in the water and half out, those gamines to which Huffpo's people aspired —their breasts glimmering under the lights and stares of a hundred chubby dudes—posed and tossed large beach balls. The sheen of chlorine on their faces, no doubt undoing the good work of their expensive Clarins moisturizer, didn't mask the underlying truth that the amount of clothing worn at this particular party is inversely proportional to the level of self-esteem of those wearing and not wearing it. Of course there are some outliers—the obese, those with eczema, that rare bird in a one piece—but in general a good rule of thumb.

The men, meanwhile, at least those swimming, could be divided in terms of their levels of definition. This is important to the Thrillist ethos. Here too an inversely proportional relationship could be found. Those with the most developed pecs and triceps who frolicked in the pool were clearly the ones with whom any civilized person would have the least to do with. As the muscular definition became more and more vague, likeability increased.

As the night wore on, empty Sparks cans ringed the poolside, their sickening contents drained into the guts of now drunk and hyper revelers. Sklar had left long ago to work on her book, which is apparently about Jews, and the pool was mostly empty, save a few slowly drowning beach balls.—Josh

Thrillist Pool Party [Flickr]

Sleeves Tees [Thrillist]

their creed demands they not boot you even if you're the last man not passed out in his Sierra Nevada.

Pittman's history within Time-Warner lay primarily with MTV, so he's cool with what the kids are saying. He's also done boardroom time at places like Cendant and videogame factory Electronic Arts. He definitely has a thing for the e-mails, as in addition to Daily Candy, Pilot reputedly tossed about $300K into the manly coffers of male-mail service Thrillist. Incestuous side note: Thrillist lordling Ben Lerer is the son of Ken Lerer, cofounder of the Huffington Post, which Pilot may also have a minority stake in. Beyond that, Pilot has amassed a small portfolio of net-friendly small media properties, like the Double O radio network, 21 TV stations via Barrington Broadcasting, and a net marketing company (and former iFilm subsidiary) called OTX.

And Pittman has his socially conscious side as well, from throwing money at Eliot Spitzer to the "venture philanthropy" of the Robin Hood group. One assumes he's perhaps not quite so cavalier these days about personally flying planes at shareholder expense. There is one puzzling component of Pilot's portfolio, that being the Contours Express chain of women's gyms. Not sure what that has to do with new media, but to their credit, Daily Candy hasn't started gushing about the benefits of positve and negative resistance.

That aside, Daily Candy remains Pilot's prize, but you have to wonder — how does one realistically turn even an admittedly fine e-mail list into an $130 million valuation? Skittish investors didn't buy it either — at least not yet — even though DC's self-projected 2006 revenue comes in it at "somewhere less than $20 million." Given that, the asking price could have been even higher than $100 million, and yet it wasn't, and nobody bought it anyway. The AOL/Time-Warner merger debacle aside, Pittman and the Pilot Group have a reputation for being among the most canny new media investors out there, but the deciding hand in their big buy remains mostly unplayed.

They say the first year is always the hardest for both marriage and websites, so it makes sense that when that mark is hit, one would want to go out and get shitfaced. Last night, the boys from Thrillist did exactly that, inviting perpetual troublemakers Intern Heather, shutterfly Kate, and dance-happy videographer, Richard Blakeley along for the ride. The tequila-soaked lovefest saw standard-issue stripey shirts and skanks spazzdancing with kids from College Humor, Converse, and News Corp, which left us wondering ... would a Daily Candy party ever involve this much douchebaggery? Probably not. In the clip above, observe the various hot new dance moves practiced by various attendees. And you may enjoy a further photo gallery here.

At Your Service [UD]
Room Service [Thrillist]

Earlier: Battle of the Alpha Male Email Newsletters

Urban Daddy on Pre:Post
Detox drinks
'Scores' cocktail
Steak and eggs
Reservable private glass room
Proximity to Marquee

Thrillist on Pre:Post
Detox drinks
'Scores' cocktail
Steak and eggs
Reservable private glass room
Pot pie

So, when aligning your fratty email newsletter of choice, ask yourself this: Are you a Marquee Man, or a Pot Pie Playa? And if you actually have an answer to that question, could you please drag yourself into oncoming traffic?

Urban Daddy
Thrillist

Enter Yacht-Smart, the Zipcar of big-ass boats. For a mere $525 per month (plus, um, your $1000 initiation fee and $2500 for insurance) you can reserve time on any of their 27-foot boats — all of which make your Murray Hill playpen look weak. Trade in your striped shirt for some chinchilla, get behind the wheel, and you'll be such a slut-fetching P. Diddy, no one will even notice you're cruising out of Hoboken.

Yacht Smart [Thrillist]

Sigh.

Until we read the damn thing, which is a completely earnest guide to Park City, Utah. Shame on you, Thrillist. For such a purportedly macho newsletter, those sure are some tiny balls you're sporting.

Park City, Utah [Thrillist]

Indeed, were they just to focus on the homoerotic elements of fratboy culture more often, we suspect we'd have entirely different feelings about this endeavor.

The Thrill List [Thrillist]

Buying: John Varvatos Concealer JohnVarvatosScent.com, $26
122 Spring St, at Greene; 212.965.0700
Finally, a Varvatos product that meets the needs of the roughhewn, blue-collar demographic: a facial concealer stick that hides scars from knife fights, dark circles from lonely nights with the bottle, and premature age lines brought on by years of backbreaking labor. Oh, and if you're a metro prettyboy, it also covers up zits and tear tracks.

A-ha! Once again, we really feel this is the sort of item that could be better marketed to women:

He'll never admit it, but you know what he's up to. Every morning, your man locks himself in the loo — but when he emerges, none of the signs of his typical toilet time are there. In fact, the bathroom seems relatively untouched, unscathed. Except your makeup drawer. Yep, there they are, his uncovered tracks: Your concealer has been moved! He was using your makeup. AGAIN. And while that massive pimple on his forehead has been driving you insane, you know he didn't even apply your Touche Eclat to proper effect. You're tired of him wasting your precious supply of ammunition; it's time to get him his own stash.

The Thrill List [Thrillist]

Today's Daily Candy:

Restaurant we know we'll be avoiding, oh, forever: Aspen.

Aspen [Thrillist]
Tap the Rockies [Daily Candy]

It's the third date, and you've waited. You could've done him the night you met, but you held out to make sure he was worth getting waxed for. Tonight's the night, though — he's in your bed, and you're wearing the nice panties. But seconds before the two of you embark on a steamy consummation, the object of your lust goes limp and you're enraged. What to do? Be patient, stay calm, and don't slap him just yet. Don't let his embarassment stand in the way of your pleasure. Suck it up and give his unit another shot — and, before it's too late, bust out a Hot Rod Speedstrip condom. If the ripcord speed doesn't keep him at attention, he certainly doesn't deserve to be near your sheets.

Earlier: Thrillist Makes Things So Unfair

The female and/or gay equivalent to Thrillist is, unfortunately, Daily Candy, which focuses mostly on cute shopping, cute dining options, and cute vacation ideas. And if you're not cute, tough shit.

Being equal parts female and gay, we find this utterly reprehensible. Where's our version of these newsletters? If someone doesn't even the playing field, we'll be forced to start translating Thrillist to serve our own means: He's pouring drinks down your throat and you're getting wasted — but you've got enough sense left to know you need to get out of there. For a quick escape, here are 5 well-lit areas in the Meatpacking District...

DailyCandy's fratboy brother Thrillist has a quiz today, which answers all those lingering questions about our missing Office box set. Now, next question: Which is the biggest sin?

A. wearing a striped button-down
B. bathing in Drakkar Noir
C. forwarding this Thrillist quiz to all of your "brahs"
D. being a Mitchum Man

PopQuiz #1 [Thrillist]