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Sunday afternoon we threw out our back. Did we do this the way most non-geriatrics do, in an athletic endeavor? No, we did not. Did we do it exercising? Nope. Having sex? Alas, no. So how, then? We threw out our back lifting a case of wine. Which, ultimately, seems about right.

We're telling you this only to explain why we were hopped up on painkillers all day yesterday. And we're telling you that we were hopped up on painkillers only because we recently reread our analysis of Ken Auletta's New Yorker piece on Arthur Sulzberger Jr., which was so badly copyedited that we occasionally couldn't figure what the hell we'd been trying to say. (It's fixed now.) We apologize for what might have been our worst self-copyediting ever — and, trust us, we've done some bad self-copyediting in our time — and we blame it entirely on the drugs.

We're clean now.

Earlier: Arthur II: On the Rocks