<![CDATA[Saturday Night - Gawker Comments]]> <![CDATA[Saturday Night - Gawker Comments]]> <![CDATA[Saturday Night]]> In that case, I retract my comment. You shouldn't be a writer. I don't read you. Seriously.

bytememehard

]]> <![CDATA[Saturday Night]]> @bytememehard: I'm Joan Didion, you asshole.

BeRightBack

]]> <![CDATA[Saturday Night]]> I'm not sure what's going on here, but I'm pretty sure it's illegal.

BowlingAlleyLawyer

]]> <![CDATA[Saturday Night]]> The group facilitator emphasized how the members were in charge. Somehow boundaries and perceptions became an equal challenge if not priority.

WordSalad

]]> <![CDATA[Saturday Night]]> @BeRightBack: Magical! YOU should be a writer. I'd read you. Seriously.

bytememehard

]]> <![CDATA[Saturday Night]]> The deflowering of Virgil.

BunnySoup

]]> <![CDATA[Saturday Night]]> Golden Girls Gone Wild!!

noiseyneighbor

]]> <![CDATA[Saturday Night]]> So disturbed by this.

nyobserver

]]> <![CDATA[Saturday Night]]> @Richard: That was remarkably poignant, m'dear.

DorothyMantooth

]]> <![CDATA[Saturday Night]]> @bytememehard: That just gets more deliciously (and, I'm betting, unintendedly) undermining with every repetition. It also makes me hope that In Other News... turns out to be Mary Gaitskill.

@In Other News...: @Richard: I did love these. More, from everyone!

BeRightBack

]]> <![CDATA[Saturday Night]]> A family in crisis: Granny's heart attack and fatal head injury stunned us all. She paid for the Motel 8 with her social security. Next year's reunion site may be a disappointment.

BunnySoup

]]> <![CDATA[Saturday Night]]> @Richard: Magical! You should be a writer. I'd read you.

bytememehard

]]> <![CDATA[Saturday Night]]> @Richard: I think I've stayed inthe Fern Room in Sioux City. It was a Best Western I think.

That's brilliant.

I think you channelled someone from my aunt Pat's side of the family. I suggest you switch the channel before they head back to the farm.

SheWalkedWithAZombie

]]> <![CDATA[Saturday Night]]> @In Other News...: You're a very twisted little freakazoid, but we love you just the same. Gawrsh, that was grand.

Spirit Fingers

]]> <![CDATA[Saturday Night]]> @In Other News...: ha! commie dude, seriosly

Ketch, can we just upgrade to medals, cause wow.

BalknChain

]]> <![CDATA[Saturday Night]]> @In Other News...: Photography. A magical medium. Did you know about Nathan's funeral in Sioux City? February, '66. Esther and Pat and Cousin Francis and me all drove out in the DeSoto and stayed in the Fern Room, as Dottie called it. Though by then all the ferns had died so it just smelled a bit woodsy, like Grampa Stanton's clothes. What we did that night was make something that Francis was calling the "Michigan Mauler," a drink he and some of his buddies from the Merchant Marines had made while vacationing in the Outer Banks, two summers before. It included Triple Sec, Rum, crushed up aspirin, and three jiggers of beer. We were all wild that night and calling out Nate's name into the night. Esther kept sticking her head out of the open window (you can't see it here), and saying "Here's to you, boy-o!" as she thrust her tumbler to the inky heavens. Pat began a rosary and no one paid attention because they never did. And Dottie ran in and out saying "Sssh! Sssh! You'll wake Hank!" Scared, because he was mean that winter, after the hunting accident when Don Nickels got shot in the leg. And did you know that Sue Nickels showed up that night, before Pat threw up in the puke-colored wastebasket? She showed up and she was wearing a housecoat and had an inch of ash on her cigarette and she had a "Michigan Mauler" and cackled at its awful taste and she did a dance with Cousin Francis and I remembered how much I missed her? That was when we all went to Sioux City, for Nathan's funeral. Before you were born. Before the neighborhoods got built up, and the presidents got mean, and buildings fell from the sky. This was all before that. This photograph here.

Richard

]]> <![CDATA[Saturday Night]]> @In Other News...: Awwww.

Helman

]]> <![CDATA[Saturday Night]]> @Helman: Helman, on cloudless days you inspire me to stick my long neck up to the little square window in Gawker's house.

In Other News...

]]> <![CDATA[Saturday Night]]> It always looked like this at Jack Nicholson's house when he was growing up.

TripMcCane

]]> <![CDATA[Saturday Night]]> This pic will be the basis for a new Felliniesque Vincent Gallo film: Polyester Pandemonium.

TripMcCane

]]> <![CDATA[Saturday Night]]> @AndSheSaid: If he doesn't win one for that, I'm executing myself again in protest. HAHA, kidding! Please don't execute me anymore...but seriously, he should win.

Unfun

]]> <![CDATA[Saturday Night]]> @In Other News...: I like to think I provided at least some inspiration for this beautiful tale of old ladies and ejaculate. If I was not, please don't tell me.

Helman

]]> <![CDATA[Saturday Night]]> @In Other News...: Those 452 words are worth a commie.

SheWalkedWithAZombie

]]> <![CDATA[Saturday Night]]> Olds are the new Brooklyn hispters?

PickleTitsTurner

]]> <![CDATA[Saturday Night]]> @AndSheSaid: @Unfun: @AndSheSaid: @Calraigh: @DonPardoCalrissian: @BalknChain: @VirusWithShoes: @scroll_lock: @bytememehard:

This picture was worth 452 words.

In Other News...

]]> <![CDATA[Saturday Night]]> @blakeley: That makes sense. But it can't take away the belly laugh I got when I saw it.

SheWalkedWithAZombie

]]> <![CDATA[Saturday Night]]> @In Other News...: The cherry Lifesavers. That was the pièce de résistance.

SheWalkedWithAZombie

]]> <![CDATA[Saturday Night]]> @Unfun: BITCH!!

Unfun

]]> <![CDATA[Saturday Night]]> @PennyJane: Although this just makes me think of James Frey.

Calraigh

]]> <![CDATA[Saturday Night]]> @In Other News...: That was beautiful. [Wipes tear from eye.] We are in the presence of greatness.

SheWalkedWithAZombie

]]> <![CDATA[Saturday Night]]> @In Other News...: Leave out, 'my precious child', and you're on the bestseller list, they're making movies with your words, you're fucking movie stars.That's a promise.

Calraigh

]]> <![CDATA[Saturday Night]]> "Oh, Dame Edna, I think you're cut off!"

tempest

]]> <![CDATA[Saturday Night]]> @scroll_lock: Underalls have never seemed so erotic.

@In Other News...: "...surpassed only by St. Helens' two decades later, and Washington State was so far away." Speechless. Beautiful. Glowing. Might I also say "true."

DonPardoCalrissian

]]> <![CDATA[Saturday Night]]> @In Other News...: Showoff.

Unfun

]]> <![CDATA[Saturday Night]]> @fiveinchtaint:
You think this photo was taken in Florida?

I take it you haven't been to the Pittsburgh area lately.


fragglewaggle

]]> <![CDATA[Saturday Night]]> @In Other News...: wow..I think I hear angels

BalknChain

]]> <![CDATA[Saturday Night]]> Dag burn it gramma! Can't we get one naaaice family photo without ya yakking? I mean, look, ma's in her best tangerneen suit.

BalknChain

]]> <![CDATA[Saturday Night]]> @BalknChain: I for one, can hold a Mai Tai in one hand and yank off my breakaways with the other. It's an acquired skill.

scroll_lock

]]> <![CDATA[Saturday Night]]> @In Other News...: Brilliant. Fucking, brilliant.

VirusWithShoes

]]> <![CDATA[Saturday Night]]> @scroll_lock: ha!

BalknChain

]]> <![CDATA[Saturday Night]]> @In Other News...: A salty burst indeed! That's hilarious- and "nomenclatural fate" is my new fave expression.

scroll_lock

]]> <![CDATA[Saturday Night]]> Saturday night with the ladies! Who cares what picture we see?
Puking with Aunt Mabel at the Travelodge, Room 4C?


Dickdogfood

]]> <![CDATA[Saturday Night]]> @In Other News...: Magical! You should be a writer. I'd read you.

bytememehard

]]> <![CDATA[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.

In Other News...

]]> <![CDATA[Saturday Night]]> @DonPardoCalrissian: In response to Barbara Walters' question, "If you were a twee, what kind of twee would you be?" Ed Brooke replied, "I'd be a huge, banging the shit out of old yenta journalists with speech impediments tree." Whereupon Babs lowered her Underalls and the opening strains of Beethoven's fifth were heard.

scroll_lock

]]> <![CDATA[Saturday Night]]> @PennyJane: You are correct.

blakeley

]]> <![CDATA[Saturday Night]]> The cast of The Real World 1976 unites to kick Martha out of the house.

Betty: "You can't just keep drinking this way, Martha. Just look at yourself! They've already kicked you out of one bar! That's it, I'm done. I'm over it."

Martha: "You don't know what I've been through! [sobbing uncontrollably] I have an eating disorder, my boyfriend abused me, I was on Meth, and I used to strip..."

Joey: "Martha, dude. You ruined my best shirt."

Spirit Fingers

]]> <![CDATA[Saturday Night]]> And to think this picture was taken right around the time Wintour was fucking Marley! Or, was it the other way around?

IndianSlipper

]]> <![CDATA[Saturday Night]]> This is the party in New Bedford in 1974 where Barbara Walters and Edward Brooke finally sealed the deal.

DonPardoCalrissian

]]> <![CDATA[Saturday Night]]> Maybelle spits; Sadie swallows.

Helman

]]> <![CDATA[Saturday Night]]> This pic embodies the reason my 70's childhood was so messed up! It doesn't, however, explain the last three decades.

IndianSlipper

]]> <![CDATA[Saturday Night]]> Saturday night, 2058:
Star magazine editor-at-large emeritus Julia Allison and handbag designer Mary Rambin at the Laughing Jackalope Motel in Las Vegas.

koala325

]]> <![CDATA[Saturday Night]]> Oh, wow. No.

I think I got some on me.

Spirit Fingers

]]> <![CDATA[Saturday Night]]> Nope, I'm going to wait for those Kristian Laliberte 'fight' photos to surface here before I get to decide which are more amusing.

fileunder

]]> <![CDATA[Saturday Night]]> "Oh THERE'S the beef."

Colonel Mustard

]]> <![CDATA[Saturday Night]]> @Helman: "...and at Sunset Assisted Living, We Let OUR Seniors Do Whatever and WHOEVER They Want!"

In Other News...

]]> <![CDATA[Saturday Night]]> I'm pretty sure this is from an old David LaChapelle series. It's, you know, posed. Sadly.

PennyJane

]]> <![CDATA[Saturday Night]]> @In Other News...: heeheehee (You are so good at these!)

Helman

]]> <![CDATA[Saturday Night]]> "...and this undated photo makes it quite clear that the Ralph Nader presidential campaign doesn't take itself too seriously."

In Other News...

]]> <![CDATA[Saturday Night]]> Is the lady with the beer to her head also vomiting blood into a trash can?

Helman

]]> <![CDATA[Saturday Night]]> Nothing Fazes Leo DiCaprio, Bitches.

In Other News...

]]> <![CDATA[Saturday Night]]> In their final music video together, Robert Palmer and the girls failed to recapture that old "Addicted to Love" mojo.

MisterHippity

]]> <![CDATA[Saturday Night]]> @ClevelandSteamier: Not so fast, dude. At least D-listed has the good sense to gratuitously publish pictures of hot semi-nekked men on a daily basis. Gawker could learn a thing or two about pleasing their core audience.

bytememehard

]]> <![CDATA[Saturday Night]]> If this isn't in Florida, I'd be very surprised.

fiveinchtaint

]]> <![CDATA[Saturday Night]]> @nottobeconfusedwith: Funny!@StonedAndDethroned: Yawning can be dangerous around here. Just something to keep in mind.

Helman

]]> <![CDATA[Saturday Night]]> Enid knew it was a bad idea to hire Mrs. Nusbaum's son to dance at the monthly meeting of Daughters of the Bataan Death March. But now it was becoming obvious he didn't know how to operate his breakaway pants and some of the girls were getting woozy from White Russians and Mai Tais.

scroll_lock

]]> <![CDATA[Saturday Night]]> Wow, I'd forgetten all about that Carol Burnett Show sketch!

Harvey Korman looked so young in those days.

MisterHippity

]]> <![CDATA[Saturday Night]]> @StonedAndDethroned: Dlisted? Yawn!

ClevelandSteamier

]]> <![CDATA[Saturday Night]]> @valarmorghulis: banging you fumble-fingered nitwit.

valarmorghulis

]]> <![CDATA[Saturday Night]]> Bugger. I gotta hang out at the Gawk Office parties more.

InternMary

]]> <![CDATA[Saturday Night]]> "Mom sure can't hold her liquor like she used to."

"Hey Marge, fix me another Tom Collins. My Schlitz is runnin' low"

jeremyc

]]> <![CDATA[Saturday Night]]> I know without a doubt that guy drives a '78 Camaro Z-28...and it ROCKS!

BullfightsOnAcid

]]> <![CDATA[Saturday Night]]> Mabel had been feeling ill all day, and just as those Harvey Wallbangers started coming up Edith heard Martin baning on the door. Arthur girded himself for conflict and began muttering, "I will not fear..."

valarmorghulis

]]> <![CDATA[Saturday Night]]> What's Old Jason Preston doing in the WowOWow boardroom?

Richard

]]> <![CDATA[Saturday Night]]> Yawn! This same photo was the open caption contest on Dlisted six weeks ago.

StonedAndDethroned

]]> <![CDATA[Saturday Night]]> The WASP answer to Bar Mitzvah Disco.

SW-2

]]> <![CDATA[Saturday Night]]> I never get invited to the fun parties!

gringuitico

]]> <![CDATA[Saturday Night]]> Two Girls, one 1970's era trash can.

BrianVan

]]> <![CDATA[Saturday Night]]> Oh no, I forgot Mom's birthday again!

SidAndFinancy

]]> <![CDATA[Saturday Night]]> Hillary's Base Reacts To Her Loss In North Carolina.

nottobeconfusedwith

]]> <![CDATA[Saturday Night]]> Thanks for the quasi-crotch shot of the old gal in the pink skirt clutching the beer to her forehead. At least she's wearing her support hose.

sassypants

]]> <![CDATA[Saturday Night]]> Looks like Emily Brill couldn't get into the Beatrice last weekend.

TheHonJudgeSmails

]]>