Well, I've mostly been reading old copies of the New Yorker because I got very behind and am trying to catch up. But in between that I've been reading various other things as well.
This week's TONY was a positive font of absurdity. First you've got the people writing into the sex columnist: a soon-to-be college student anxious about getting his masturbation time in and a guy with gnarly feet and a foot-fetishist for a boyfriend. Now maybe it's just me, and maybe it's a girl thing, but I feel like the solution to these problems is fairly obvious. Problem a) Figure out when your roommate isn't around. Or you know, discuss the fact that everyone needs a little personal space. Problem b) Get a damn pedicure. Seriously, pedicures are awesome anyway.
Then we had the summary of certain white supremacy groups. In case anyone needed a reminder of how weird people are. We've got Women for Aryan Unity which, "gathers donations for white babies in need; sends homemade Christmas cards to jailed skinheads; and distributes hate literature dotted with cupcake recipes [italics mine]," and, "claims to hate no one, but rather exhibit concern over the welfare of the 'beloved white race.'" As if they weren't enough, we also have The Pioneer Fund. TONY writes, "Current president J. Philippe Rushton has provoked widespread debate with his theory that smaller penis size is related to increased intelligence." I'm thinking Mr. Rushton is not so well endowed.
And then we've got Frank, a 32-year-old ice cream man from Long Island who says, "A black president? I'm not being racist about it, but we need a white guy. Why? Because, yo, they seem to know how to get the job done. I mean, look at Newark--Iraq got more sense than Newark."
You've just got to laugh, right?
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