Friday, June 25, 2004

weekly intemperate New Yorker rant

Hey Remnick,
Everyone knows that an attack of explosive diarrhea is funnier than Bruce McCall. Rarely, however, do you showcase his profound stupidity as extravagantly as in his latest travesty of Thurberian "whimsy." Off the top of my head: Greeks didn't wear togas, they didn't have corn, and they were pretty clear on the location of Byzantium because they had just fucking founded it.

But it's not just the details: the "joke" doesn't make sense at all. It's like he tagged along to one of Denby's great books classes, but was so exhausted from jerking off to internet porn he fell asleep and could only remember the wacky names.

You see, when you know something about your subject, it's easier to make fun of it.

Fuck it, between McCall and this cretinous tool, it's only a matter of time before you hire David Brooks. Where do you find these douchebags? At this point I can't wait to read another 50,000 words about shad: at least McPhee really goes fishing before he writes about it.

Background: This started with Gopnik and Schjeldahl [ok, it really started with my -- perfectly rational -- hatred of Denby]. Then, in a relatively rare non-New Yorker episode, this woman tried to explain the alleged greatness of the titles Bonfire of the Vanities and The Sun Also Rises without reference to either Savonarola or Ecclesiastes. At the time, I assumed this was only an oversight, but I fear my charity was misplaced. On the other hand, she's not writing about the fucking Iliad for the New Yorker. Is it too much to expect that people understand something about what they write about?


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