from: Noah Robishon <noah@gawker>
to: Nick Denton <firstname.lastname@example.org>
subject: Blakeley’s crying about College Humor stealing his videos
Nick, do you have van veen’s email handy?
Why yes Boltlung, I certainly do. It is:
By the way, how’s that “Mastering Email with Laurel Touby” class at Mediabistro coming along?
Whenever I think about Emily and Josh, I try to remember a simpler time, a time when things weren’t so complicated. Like that time when Emily was so freaked out by a leotard-wearing Josh stalking her at yoga that she stopped coming into the office altogether for weeks at a time so that she wouldn’t have to see him.
Ah yes, the good times.
Note to self: Never hire a hetero Jew blogger ever again!
I’d get down on my hands and knees and crawl across a field of broken glass just to listen to Al Reynolds urinating into a cup.
I can’t think of a better way for Lolcait to come roaring out of the closet than by hosting “The Ultimate Gossip Girl Summit.”
Many of the e-mails filling my inbox today are vehemently calling for the heads of Tracie Egan, for once again violating the commenter privacy agreement that I really don’t give a fuck about in the first place, and Nick Douglas for being, well, Nick Douglas.
First, about firing Tracie: Are you fucking kidding me? In an organization whose crazy quotient exceeds that of dentists and Jihadists combined, Tracie is not merely the most mentally unstable, she’s a walking Lifetime movie. She’s Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction. On steroids.
This is a woman who is rumored to lure men that she dislikes, or has it out for in some way, into bed for unprotected sex so that she can knowingly infect them with whatever mutant strains of human social disease she happens to be incubating inside of the petri dish between her thighs at the moment.
This is also a woman who throws New Year’s Eve parties in her home, then turns around and shamelessly solicits donations for cleaning services from strangers on the Internet after her “friends” spill liquor on her possessions, long after she’s passed out while being sodomized and is unable to supervise her own party, mind you.
The angry mob will just have to let this one go because I truly fear what she might do to the love bandit in retribution. Besides, the Jezzies eat up Tracie’s rejected submissions to Penthouse Letters, and I’ll always be a capitalist first, and a misogynist second.
As far as Nick Douglas goes, they can all forget about that one as well. Yes, I know that people are pissed off over the penetration post, one that I prudently pulled down immediately by the way, and they say that he’s by far the worst contributor in the history of Gawker Media, but he’s a ginger hobbit, my ginger hobbit. In case you didn’t know, ginger hobbits are not only rare, but to gay, British new media overlords, they’re the equivalent of what midgets are to ibankers.
So until Boltlung can find another ginger hobbit in possession of the ability to construct sentences with a junior high school level of aptitude to replace him, Nick Douglas stays.
Now, where the fuck is my paperweight?
Julia Allison: OMG Nick I have a stalker! A blog stalker!
Me: Yes. And?
Julia Allison: Nick, how could you be so callous? This is serious! I’m scared of this person! I mean, they’re posting stuff about me that isn’t fed to them directly by me or through the two dozen or so email addresses that I use to submit things about myself “anonymously” to Gawker Media editors after they’ve ignored my direct solicitations via email and IM. Besides, Gawker Media editors are my friends, Nick. Or at least they’re foolish enough to think that they’re my friend because I suck up to them so effectively from the day that they come on board. I ask them for relationship advice, or about their girlfriends and boyfriends, then I pretend to actually listen to them, and before you know it I’ve got them right in the palm of my hand. Look at Emily, she was all “ew vomit” towards me at first, but then I just kept showing up in her world and eventually won her over by beating her into submission through zeroing in on her vulnerabilities and insecurities, to the point that she was spiking stories about me, dogsitting Lilly, and roadtriping with me to see Staten Island psychics. You see Nick, my emotional intelligence is, despite my profound inability to understand myself, off the charts when it comes to others, and that helps me to read people very effectively, to the point that I can control and manipulate them, but this Baugher is someone I can’t control and manipulate, and it’s scary Nick, scary I tell you!
Julia Allison: What? “Yawn?” But Nick, I thought we were in this together! I thought we were a team! You know, you and I working side by side to carefully craft this “Julia Allison” persona. That’s what we’ve been doing for the last two years. How else would anyone even know my fucking name? How else would I have this job at Star? How else would Bravo even give me the time of day, much less my own television show? Gawker posts things about me, things that are carefully vetted and planted by me of course, I get famous along the way, you get to play kingmaker, so it all works out and we both get what we want; I get the fame and you get the power. Now, you’ve GOT to help me ferret out this Baugher person and shame them publicly! They’re digging up all the things that I never wanted to come out about myself, which is why I changed my name mind you, and publishing everything on this vicious blog.
Me: Frankly Julia, I’m both bored and disappointed by you. You’ve turned into something so clownish, so over the top foolish, that even I find you to be an abomination. I wish that you would just go away. You’re an embarrassment to me, the person who, metaphorically speaking, gave birth to “Julia Allison,” just as you’re an embarrassment to the person from whose loins you actually sprung. I’ve found other means to manufacture pageviews, so I really don’t need you any longer. I’m one of the few people around here who wasn’t foolish enough to fall for your “friendship” charms and saw you merely as something to be used, like a condom, a condom that I’ve already blown my load in and can now discard as rubbish. However, I’ll do you this favor and post something as an aside, as long as you promise to just go away. I’d really like nothing more than to divorce myself from you. Now what would you like for me to say?
Julia Allison: Well, okay. Mention that Baugher’s a woman, an old menopausal woman, like forty or something, who lives in someplace dreary and depressing like Seattle. And say that she does something gross for a living, like lawyering. And oh, mention that she’s a lonely divorcee who has like, five cats. And of course, she HAS to be the worst form of subhuman in the history of the world, a Gawker commenter!
Nick: Very well. Consider it done. But really Julia, what’s so bad about having a blog “stalker” anyway? Between you and me, I kind of secretly wish that I had one.
Do I really want to attend another Sloane Crosley circle jerk tonight? Do I really want to have to listen to Jonathan Ames whine about addition and his itchy asshole? Do I really want to listen to A.M. Homes’ incessant droning about how her mother was a slut? Do I really want to listen to Liz Spiers’ pathetic fishing for peer approval of her new gig at Fortune?
But go I must, if only to secure Sloane’s autograph inside of her painfully mediocre essay collection so that I am assured of one-upping everyone at the next book club gathering. I just hope that Huffington doesn’t fuck me by showing up with an autographed copy of Mein Kampf that she obtained in an Ebay auction. That’d be so like her to do that.
Then again, I can always send Boltlung to the book party and go bowling with the staff instead. Aren’t we competing against Radar tonight? It would be nice to see if Balk can roll better than a 37. I wonder if Neel will be there?
How many times do I have to tell you that Charmin gives me dingleberries? Quilted Northern Boltlung, Quilted Northern!