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!
Calls For Making Tracie Egan and Nick Douglas Redundant
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.
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?
I’m more than sure that this is all Jim Lehnhoff puffing away while yapping into his celly coordinating his diaperpail friend activities, but seriously people, what are we, an assembly of dirty Brooklyn hipsters or something?
Shortly posting this video on Friday, along with some terse commentary thrown in for good measure, I received the following e-mail from Tionna Smalls:
Subject: Don’t Get Mad At Me!
Don’t Get mad at me because I have a vagina and you don’t. You think I care about what you think about me. I saw your comment about me on your little blog:
"Yes Tionna Smalls, your firing was a direct result of my being “intimidated” by and “jealous” of you. It had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that I mistook you for the large, loud black woman married to the totally not gay Al Reynolds when you were hired, thus crushing my dreams of sneaking off to “smoke a fag” with the dreamy Al at future Gawker parties."
If you are comparing me to Star Jones then thanks, that’s a freaking compliment because that is one black woman who goes out there and does her thing. She’s more famous than you and probably has more money than you. You are jealous because you can’t bleed once a month and because everyone thinks you’re a pompus asshole. I am not intimidated of you and you are jealous because you could never make me mad like you have done past workers of yours. I didnt even know you existed before I took the job at Gawker so go to hell. You dont want to make this personal because I will rip your whore ass to sheds. I know more about you then you think so play your position, old man and keep boning those male prostitutes you hire. Dont mess with me!
I call it how I see it. You are jealous and I saw how you were looking at me at the Christmas party. You can sit there and make all those college graduates out there think you made their career but not this woman… You didn’t make me. I fell across Gawker because I mistook it for Gotham. Dont get cute because you got lucky… Some of us have to work for ours, others just get it… I am proud that you can put your finger up your ass so you can orgasm and look out the window at your office at the same time. Now cool it.
Go shoot yourself and die because no one likes you.
P.S. I am still talking that ish and what? People ask me about Gawker, I dont tell them about you. Sorry. I know you’re mad this black woman got a chance to be famous from your blog but oh well- shit happens. I still appreciate the opportunity. Another thing, you cant fire someone who works from home and please dont make me go back in my archives and really figure out how much money you owe me Mr. Pay per Click. Play your position, Mr. Denton. You’re not ready for the girls from the ghetto.
I go to bed every night thinking about you. I have an empty desk right next to me, and I’d love nothing more than to have you sitting right next to me. Why must there be so much distance between us??? Don’t run from your feelings! You know that what we could have would be absolutely wonderful. I know you pulled me off of sales just so we can be closer. ;)
The building anticipation from having me haunt your dreams for a while will only make our future lovemaking all the better. So chill the fuck out. XO,
Look, it’s never going to happen between you and I, okay? I’m into the Blacks and the unattainably straight, young, faux-hipster types who run sophomoric websites for frat boys. And you’re so not black or unattainably straight.Now, please don’t cry at your new workstation. Your tears might stain the finish.
For all of you members, I’ve decided that the selections for my book club’s first month will be I Was Told There’d Be Cake AND Mein Kempf. Why? I just feel that Hitler and Sloane Crosley go so well together as companion reads. Don’t you agree?
While many have expressed shock and indignation over Howard Kurtz having Julia on as a guest on Reliable Sources, I, for one, was not surprised. Myself and others have long known Julia to be a reliable source of many things, including:
I’ve given this plenty of thought and, quite frankly, your name sucks. I’ve decided that you should change it. As my main doppelganger you need a name that embodies strength, virility, and potency. I need you to have a name that sounds as if I plucked you directly off of the set of Dude, Where’s My Dildo?
A name like Lockhart Steele.
I mean, how can any of my peers respect me when my Number 2 has a name like Noah Robischon? It just sounds so Canadian. Or, even worse, FRENCH! Arianna makes fun of me all the time as it is.
So I’ve come up a few names that I feel would be a better fit for you to choose from:
Hugh G. Jackman
Jory Sicha (So hot!)
Boltlung Iron (It’s a play on words! Get it?)
Dick Nenton (I really like this one)
I suggest, you decide. Let’s meet in the cafe at McNally’s on Friday afternoon to discuss your decision.
PS- I’d also like for you to grow a Rollie Fingers-style mustache and to begin wearing a top hat. Thanks.
Oh joy! The kit I ordered from www.makeyourowndildo.com came in today. Now I’ll have just what I always wanted for my new office—a bronze statuette of Scott Kidder’s cock for a paperweight! I’ll have Noah do the molding of Scott’s man-mallet right away.
Let this be a lesson to all the kids out there that dreams do come true!
Poor Noelle. I just had to take her under my wing for a spell. First her employer predictably shits the bed, and soon she’ll discover that she’s merely a beard for Nick Confessore. I just hope that she isn’t too hard on herself when she finds out. After all, Pat Healy can be quite charming when he’s sad.