Rape Jokes Are So Funny!

OK. So there’s been this annoying, insidery back and forth in various New York media outlets (Gawker, New York Magazine, etc.) about the writer of an expose of Gawker Media in New York Magazine, Vanessa Grigoriadis. She married recently, and Gawker picked up her Vows announcement in The New York Times. Gawker plays this game where they decide on the snootiest, snobbiest couple in Vows each week, basing it all on a point system (what kind of school they went to, what kind of job they have, if their parents are fancy or not, etc). Fine. Gawker is snark.

And on we go to the New York Post. Page Six, to be specific. Fine. Page Six is rudeness. (I don’t believe “obnoxion” is a word, but I would like to use it here.) Anyway, they’ve become embroiled in the whole mess because Grigoriadis wrote about them in her New York Mag story, and they have chosen to defend themselves. Fine. But what they have done has left me so offended, I want to go slap Clarence Thomas.

Here’s the whole piece, but what has me feeling sick is the final line:

“As for us being "emasculated," Grigoriadis ignores that fact that half the Page Six staff is female. The male half might take her someplace private and disprove her theory, but we don't like a woman with a mustache.”

Um, really? You’re really willing to print that, douchewads? Threatening rape, even in snarky jest, is…threatening rape, you turdbags.

It’s somewhere, somehow (oh, wait, IN THE NEW YORK Post), it's still 1991 and nobody gives a shit if there is a pubic hair deliberately placed on a Coke can.

Fire that writer. Fire. Them.



[Technorati tags: Vanessa Grigoriadis, Page Six]

Canal Street, 9:48 p.m.

I am in a cab stalking through crosstown traffic. The cab, it seems, is running on impulse. Autopilot. The memory of happiness and feeling light but full. It makes its way west because it has no other choice, because it feels drawn to its destination, because there is nothing else for it to do but this. The cabbie remains oblivious. I am in the backseat.