An unfortunate reality of the holiday season is that one must obtain gifts for those they don't necessarily like. One might even hate these people. For example, Uncle Tim's new wife Shea's daughter Melody, who once said you would be pretty if you had bangs. Or your boss, Mr. Man, who has never paid you back for the all lattes you have purchased for him. Or your ex-boyfriend, Carl, whose stunted progress on his novel—about you!—ended your relationship.
So there was this girl that I went to high school with, and basically she was/is a homophobic, mouth breathing waste of space that made my life at the time rather miserable. Anywho, recently I was on Grindr (like half my day at work) and I happened upon her still rather handsome/DILF-esque father. I messaged him and we struck up a conversation, although it's pretty obvious he has no idea who I am (though to tell the truth I have been a bit vague about some of the facts). I'm considering banging him, and then disclosing said banging to a few select individuals, knowing it would make its way back to her. Is that okay?
Hours before the death of Venezuelan president Hugo Chávez, Vice President Nicolás Maduro ejected two U.S. diplomats from the country, accusing them of plotting to "destabilize" Venezuela and implying that the U.S. had infected Chávez with cancer. "We have no doubt," Maduro said in a television address, that a scientific commission would find "that commander Chávez was attacked with this illness," comparing Chávez to Palestinian Yasser Arafat, whom Maduro suggested was also poisoned. The removed diplomats, U.S. Air Force attaché Col. David Delmonaco and another, unnamed military official, had, Maduro claimed, attempted to recruit members of the Venezuelan military into an unspecified plot against Venezuela. U.S. officials scoffed at the claims, and most observers understood Maduro's accusations against "imperialists" to be a fairly standard base-rallying move that Chávez himself had frequently resorted to in the past. Conspiracy theorists, nevertheless, turned to Venezuelan lawyer and commentator Eva Golinger, who claimed in an interview with Russia Today—the media wing of the administration of longtime Chávez ally Vladimir Putin—that there's evidence that the E.U. had had infected the president with cancer. She declined to present or describe this evidence. The U.S. has indicated it will likely ask some Venezuelan diplomats to leave the country over the next few days in response. Chávez's funeral is on Friday; Venezuela will hold elections in 30 days. [Reuters | WSJ | Ultimas Noticias]
Europe, an expensive overseas cooking school populated by pussies, is still busy finding ever more outrageous ways to offend American sensibilities. First, it was the whole WWII thing, which we had to go straighten out ourselves. Then there was Monty Python. (Was he making fun of us? I think he was making fun of us.) And now, these Eurotrash types are too good to buy cars, all of a sudden.
If there was one thing you could always count on, it was that if you, a red-blooded American male, were ever to experience the pain of hair loss, there would always be a strong, welcoming, American-owned Hair Club For Men for you to turn to. Well. Things have changed.
Former New York Times editor Bill Keller has spent the past year pursuing a weird personal crusade against Wikileaks founder Julian Assange. He continues, weirdly, and to the detriment of his own reputation. Likewise, we shall continue our crusade against Bill Keller, until all of the world's readers have abandoned both of us, and we are merely talking to one another, like the cranks that we all are.
Former Star editor and Jessica Coen enemy Joe Dolce is apparently knee-deep in some freelance Journalismism, writing a piece in Culture & Travel about a trip to Myanmar. There's not even any dead celebrities there! But there are some dead citizens once in a while, which has Joe "contemplating the ethics of traveling to a country with an oppressive regime." We can think of no one better to judge. [WWD]
We hear that Drew Kerr's Four Corners PR firm, which used to represent Radar, has finally gone to the great press release wastebasket in the sky. A former employee tells us that Kerr's resigned his Maxim and Dennis accounts, and that the company Web mail server doesn't exist anymore. [UPDATE: Kerr emails to say that he still has three clients—Future US, which publishes Guitar World, DriverTV, and Godengo; his office is not shutting down ["We just moved to 23rd and 6th"]; and though he has no employees, "it's just me as a solo operation as Four Corners Communications, as it was the first five years we were in business."] We sent an email sent to Kerr for confirmation and got the following message in return: "I will be out of the office until Thursday afternoon. Be back to you then. Thanks — Drew." Curious! We hope this doesn't mean we're never getting a box of baby carrots again!
Pardon this Andy Rooneyesque digression, but what the fuck is it with the wheatgrass in New York clubs? If you want that stuff in your Jamba Juice, then fine, enjoy the cleansing nutrients in the privacy of your own bowels. But wheatgrass has begun to creep out from the end tables to larger centerpiece platters and even to this huge planter, photographed in colonial cocktail den Pegu Club's bathroom and submitted by a puzzled reader. Near as we can tell, it serves no function besides the questionably and superficially aesthetic. Of an evening, we've run into wheatgrass lurking in three of four downtown venues, all in different neighborhoods. Is wheatgrass now required for cabaret license renewal? Are we supposed to graze upon the wheatgrass while awaiting the next round? Or is wheatgrass the new nightlife equivalent of decorating's ever-present bowl of green apples? Regardless, we're dumping a shot of bar-brand vodka on every one of these we see from now on. Please join us.