Step away from the Matt Taibbi!

It could be the NyQuil talking, but I’m thinking it’s high time me and Irish Kelley put our deviant, devious plan into action, and soon, as the one we’ve been known to lovingly (drunkenly?) call “our baby” has made it to the pages of a major national paper of record — as a subject, not a byline.

 

That’s right folks, Matt Taibbi, oftentimes referred to as heir to the new journalism throne left vacant with a bullet by Hunter S. Thompson, has been featured in the Washington Post for being, well, what we here at the Netherhouse have always known (okay, in full disclaimer mode what Madame Kelley has always known, and was more than kind enough to pass onto yours truly): the man with the brains and, oh yeah, the physique to cause multiple car pileups through sex-appeal alone, and the ability to turn it into a not only entertaining but enlightening 3,000 word expose into some earth-shattering truth, for which hordes of smart and sexually-charged women will pay the cover price — not even subscription rate — for the latest issue of Rolling Stone.

 

You never know what corner of the earth he’s traversed or what dark, demonic closet lurking deep in the bowels of this country’s government machine he’s uncovered and explained for we mere mortals to take in, understand and get righteously pissed off about.

 

In short, he must be stopped, and we aim to do it, through the use of sheer force, roofies and duct tape, if necessary.

 

Oh, not forever, mind you. “The End of the World Part IV” must be printed, fear not. In the meantime, we’re mostly just looking for a few days … oh, okay, weeks… It’s just that a good looking man who’s also smart as fuck cannot, and should not, be overlooked, especially considering the mindless fuckwit losers who can’t string a sentence that doesn’t include the words titties and beer to save their lives mindnumbingly uninteresting overblown males out there for we lasses to endure.  

 

It’s sort of like Misery, minus the breaking bones. Not that there isn’t a chance there will be bruising, but that sort of thing is just, well, part of a good night…

 

And, again, in full disclaimer mode, I must add the following info, straight from editrix Kelley’s fingers to the electronic masses, regarding the man we, collectively, would most love to reserve our ovaries for (formerly held by Mark Morford, who’s just a bit too oversexed in print and far too forthcoming about his love for his SO and Audi to be anything less than annoying, truth be told):

 

“Be sure to mention he originally wrote for The Moscow Times before joining Moscow’s expat alt-weekly, The Exile. In fact, if you Google "The Exile" there’s a bunch more stories he wrote — without the burden of answering to an American publisher?

 

You want raunchy and ascerbic? You got it, baby. There’s also the wonderful saga of How the Horse-Sperm-filled Pie Ended Up in the Times’ Bureau Chief’s Face. Hee-larious, my dear.

 

For further fodder, check out The Buffalo Beast . He started it, though he’s just a contributor now.

 

Also — one of my faves — google: The Job Offer .”

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