"Rapper 50 Cent will collaborate with a team of writers on a series of novels about life on the streets."

--Variety

* * * A Tale of Two Boroughs by 50 Cent and Charles Dickens It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of gangsta rap, it was the age of wanksta rap; we had everything before us—endorsements for G-Unit Sneakers--we had nothing before us without a personal book imprint I could sell at Borders; we were all going direct to Queens, we were all going direct the other way to Hell’s Kitchen. In South Jamaica, a daring burglary by 50 Cent took place on the front steps of the Central Library. Ja Rule was late returning The Ski Mask Way. Rather than put a “hold” on it like a wanksta, 50 Cent decided to get the book or die tryin’.

* * * What Ho, G! by 50 Cent and P. G. Wodehouse If you’ve never had a rap sidekick, I recommend that you get one, posthaste. I don’t know how I ever got along without mine—BackWurdz—a brainy sort who always comes up with words when I’m stuck for a rhyme. It happened just the other day, as I was sitting at the breakfast table and burst into verse: Sound E-Fex, live and uncut! My style’s like a punch that goes straight to the gut! I’m better than competitors, I sure don’t need no editors, Once you try my flavor, Ta-dum-te-dum-te-dum. Even after the sizzling eggs and b. that BackWurdz brought me I couldn’t complete the lines that I hoped to incorporate into a bootleg of borrowed beats. “BackWurdz, old fellow?” I said. “Yes, dog?” “I’m stuck.” “Indeed, dog.” “For want of a rhyme, a track could be lost,” I explained. “What is the word for which you seek an assonant?” See? The man’s a veritable vocab cornucopia. “Once you try my flavor ...” “Your voice will quickly quaver,” he replied evenly, as if reciting a principle of double-entry bookkeeping. “Wurdz, you’ve outdone yourself!” I exclaimed. “I endeavor to give satisfaction, dog.”

HE REAL HOUSEWIVES OF NEW JERSEY have met again around the site of their infamous last supper. This time they are trying to keep an uneasy peace and discuss another popular and infamous book: The Catcher in the Rye.

TERESA: This book was O.K. and everything but I’m kind of pissed off about something I read on the second page.

CAROLINE: I know what she’s talking about. I do. I know. Because I need to look into things. You know. Things. Especially when they are about my family.

DINA: I thought it was stupid.

TERESA: This thing about his brother. On the second page.

DANIELLE: I didn’t get to the second page.

TERESA: Prostitution whore!

JACQUELINE: Let’s not get into this again.

CAROLINE: I have to protect my family from books like this. It’s right there on the second page.

DINA: What’s on the second page? I didn’t get that far.

Danielle puts the book on the table. Everyone stares at it with dagger eyes. The tension in the room is palpable. Teresa picks up the book and starts flipping the pages.

TERESA: Prostitution whore! Right there on the second page! “Now he’s out in Hollywood, D.B., being a prostitute.”

CAROLINE: I don’t like this. Not one bit. And he doesn’t even seem to like his family, except for his sister. How can that be? Let me tell you something about my family, we’re as tick as teeves. And this kid. There’s something phony about him.

DINA: Yeah. He’s a total phony.

DANIELLE: Let me tell you about Holden Caulfield. Holden Caulfield struggled. He was out there, raising his kids and he did what he had to do. You can’t judge Holden Caulfield. You don’t know Holden Caulfield. But that’s just my opinion. I only read the first page.

JACQUELINE: I thought he represented post-war restlessness, coming back to a world completely changed that no longer makes sense but you are forced find your place in that world, even though there is no place for you. Holden is not an adolescent. He’s the representative man.

CAROLINE: Let me tell you something about the representative man. He’s a brick of beef.

DINA: This is stupid.

DANIELLE: Holden was never a prostitute. He was struggling through a life. Yes, he made mistakes. Yes, he was slightly derivative of Huckleberry Finn and yes he spawned countless even more derivative novels, but that’s not the character’s issue. That’s Salinger’s.

JACQUELINE: Did you hear about the lawsuit? The sequel to the book?

DINA: That’s stupid. What are you talking about?

TERESA: Lawyer Whore! Suing everyone! If that lawyer thinks he can come up to the First Amendment and strip a writer’s natural right to build or answer other creative works, he’s got another thing coming.

CAROLINE: Let me tell you something about intellectual property attorneys, they nickel their eaves.

DANIELLE: You don’t understand what it is to be an intellectual property attorney. You have no idea what it’s like to be out there, worrying about copyright and intellectual property. Are people using his work for their own monetary gain? Is it permissible?

DINA: I hear he’s a freak.

JACQUELINE: You are a bunch of liars. Salinger’s a great American writer and his retreat from society is necessary to find both inner peace and respite from the din of the American clamor.

TERESA: Phony Whore! Phony Whore! You think you’re better than Salinger or Holden. You sit here judging him!

Teresa slams her hand on the table and then flips the table over. Chaos ensues.

TERESA: Phony Whore! You think you can come in here and judge Salinger. Fucking anti-intellectual whore. Who are you Harold Bloom? Thinking it’s derivative? Fuck Harold Bloom! Canon making whore!

Next week, the Housewives will be reading The Crying of Lot 49.
Spoiler Alert: Dina’s head literally explodes.

(Chorus)

Wild Things

(2 x)

Grounded by my mom, sent to bed without dinner,
So I float my boat in a sea of funky cold medina.
I end up in the woods and meet some monsters drawn by Sendak,
I was all alone, but now I’ve got my friends back.
So we bring down the house and even try to fly,
Might sound absurd, but haven’t you heard, that the sun is gonna die?
I didn’t know what to do, but I’ve convinced them I’m the king,
So I taught the gang some brand new slang and became a Wild Thing.

(Chorus)

Wild Things

(2 x)

Posse in effect, having a dirt clod fight,
Before we gather in a great big pile and go to sleep for the night.
Dirty, dusted little frame, I ain’t lying, fellas--I was tired,
But what do I expect? That’s whatcha get, when you fight, then sleep outside.
So I decided to go home and go see my mother,
Because deep down, despite her boyfriend, I really do love her.
But at least I made some great new pals and even had a fling,
I wore a crown and played around in the land of the Wild Thing.

he leaves are changing in color, the air is turning crisp and chilly, and you're finding that Jeff from Accounting has a newfound interest in you ever since you got side bangs and stopped eating croissants. All this can only mean one thing: it's time to kick your deadbeat boyfriend to the foliage-covered curb.

So, just how can one effectively and easily end her pitiful excuse for a relationship while keeping her pillowcase full of delicious candy and treats, not guilt and remorse? Well, as with anything in life, it all comes down to simply dressing the part. And this time, the part is one of a coldhearted wench of a woman that no man, no matter how low his self-esteem or "free" his freelance writing happens to be, would ever consider crawling back to! Without further adieu, we present you with Halloween Costumes to Scare Your Man (Off, Forever).

His Slutty Mom Every man grimaces at the mere thought of any sexual thought involving mommy dearest creeping into his brain. Well, you'll really drive him nuts when you show up at his door, wearing his mother's most favorite puppy-patterned turtleneck turned halter top and wide-leg corduroys turned ass-less chaps. You'll have 'ol Oedipus running for the door in no time! What You'll Need: Scissors; ex-con and hairpin specialist to gain entry to mother's condo in Westchester.
His Slutty Childhood Golden Retriever He may be all grown up and almost able to grow facial hair, but your man will always hold a tender spot in his heart for Lucky. Is there any better way to drive your guy to want out than conjuring up the image of Lucky in a too-tight tube top and booty shorts? What You'll Need: Access to local Forever 21; pictures of Lucky (possibly retrieved from mother's home with above said ex-con / hairpin specialist).
His Slutty Pregnant Girlfriend Any decent man will be a bit put off seeing a woman, carrying the gift of life in her blossoming belly, tossing back P.B.R.s, ripping butts, and donning a tramp stamp with her "best guess" at the father's name. Still, he may excuse you for your costume choice, seeing that he loves you, supports you, etc, etc. ... that is, until you tell him that you'll still be sporting that baby bump come November 1st! What You'll Need: Expired condoms.
His Slutty Boss Who Laid Him Off The constant reminder of his professional failure and inadequacy will surely have your beau not wanting to come up for air during the apple-bobbing portion of the evening! What You'll Need: Slacks; suspenders; weight problem.
Slutty Hitler (BONUS! Historical Context Costume Crossover) Works particularly well if your man is of the non-Gentile persuasion. What You'll Need: Moustache; low-cut Sturmabteilung uniform.
His Slutty Ex-Girlfriend / Jeff from Accounting's Slutty, New Girlfriend It's you fucking Jeff from Accounting. What You'll Need: His mailing address; a camcorder; two U.S. postal stamps.

ood evening. Your server has informed me that you two are interested in tonight's tasting menu. Very well. Please listen carefully.

We will begin with a tasting biscuit. The biscuit is small, roughly the size of a man's thumbnail, and will be even smaller when split in half by the biscuit knife. The flavor of the biscuit, infused with fennel and East European herbs, will be striking, perhaps even shocking, and may remind you of a moment of betrayal in your life. Additionally, it will cleanse your mouth.

The menu will then continue with a lemon-zest soup. Served in a bronze ladle that is suspended over a black-and-white photograph of a revolver, the soup is a cream-based "architectural" broth that is simmered over low heat with fresh lemon zest and Sargasso Sea salt. Upon reaching the bottom of the ladle, you will find two inscriptions, one of which will reveal one of your most closely guarded and embarrassing secrets to your dining partner, and vice versa. A two-minute moment of silent reflection will immediately follow these revelations, during which you must maintain unblinking eye contact or the menu will cease.

You will not remember how the salad appeared in front of you. No matter. Quickly choose one of three available salad forks. One will be carved from lumber that has been illegally removed from the Russian taiga, one will be made of metal melted down from shell casings fired across the Strait of Gibraltar, and one will be made of shadows. Choose wisely and your salad will taste of otherworldly spring roughage that seems almost to melt beneath the light touch of a boiled-kale vinaigrette and the finest possible dusting of cinnamon. Choose poorly and you will be blinded for life.

One last piece must be delivered before the main course. Though a Tunisian quiche is traditionally served on a ceramic plate and encircled with a heavily spiced mustard, our Tunisian quiche will be served with a demon. Should you and your partner successfully capture and eliminate the demon, by whatever means necessary, you will have earned the right to eat the Tunisian quiche, which has been known to provide visions of the future and will be topped with a yogurt sauce. Should you fail to capture the demon, it will harvest your souls.

Assuming success on your quiche course, you will then be asked to completely undress for the main course, should you survive the fire that will engulf your table during the interim.

Tonight's tasting menu will feature a main course of ashes. Drizzled with Phoenician honey and served in a large bowl made of tungsten, our ashes can be a challenging dish for even the most dedicated epicure. After your server places the dish and instructs you on how to wear your sharkskin gloves properly, he will add four additional chairs around the charred remains of your table. Over the course of the meal, you and your partner will each be required to move to the chair to your right after every fifth bite and recite an ancient Zoroastrian prayer before starting again. If eaten with reluctance and disgust, your ashes will taste like ashes and, furthermore, you will experience the sensation that your single most feared animal or creature is feeding voraciously on your face. However, if eaten with appreciation and vigor, your ashes will taste of the engorged teat of Mother Earth herself. The lesser diner will be fed to the house Kraken.

The surviving diner will then enjoy a dessert wine and a cheese plate and will, of course, be served with the bill, which will be astoundingly expensive.

At this point, I assume that you are no longer interested in tonight's tasting menu. Your server will return momentarily to…

You are interested?

You're sure?

Well, then. Let's begin.

My shoulders: Because while they are strangely shaped and tend to curl forward unless I sit up straight, my current surgeon claims that any procedures he might use in an attempt to correct this gross abnormality could result in losing the use of my arms. This is a risk I am willing to take, but for some reason he is paranoid about lawsuits.

My breasts: Because I have already had them enlarged. Six times.

My forearms: I mean, they do look freakish but I tend to wear long sleeves due to my weird shoulders and the botched job my surgeon, three surgeons ago, did on my wrists. My lawyer tells me that I’m not at liberty to discuss the specifics of this case while the verdict is still pending.

My scalp: There is a two by two inch section of my scalp that is absolutely perfect; I am not kidding, everybody remarks on how the curvature is just right and how the hair growth is very regular. I have had reconstruction and hair implants on the surrounding sections of my scalp but I can honestly say that I am really comfortable with this part. The only annoying thing is figuring out what angle to hold the mirror so I can admire it.

My left lung: I was born with a right lung shaped kind of like a sombrero, which wasn’t all that obvious to anyone but the MRI technician. But once I discovered this, I couldn’t go out in public. You know how it is--everyone’s his or her own biggest critic. Fortunately, the transplant was extremely successful. The left lung is shaped vaguely like a cactus, but my best friends have sworn to me, even after I’ve plied them with margaritas, that they cannot tell.

My moustache: Absolutely off limits. I inherited this fuzzy little face pet from my grandmother and you couldn’t pay me money to kill … On second thought, I could use more donations for my kneecap reduction fund. They can apparently shave them down to the size of dimes!

My self-esteem: I love myself and I think everyone should accept themselves exactly the way they are, plus or minus a few ribs (emphasis on the minus.) I see myself as a role model and an inspiration for everyone, especially young girls.

Dubai W

Rio Omni

Hong Kong Hyatt

Sydney Wyndham

Geneva Sheraton

San Juan La Quinta

Fresno Raddison

Amarillo HoJo

Newark Econolodge

Nikki Hilton

East St. Louis Super 8

C h a p t e r   O n e .

Ruth Reichl, editor in chief of Gourmet magazine, defunct as of five minutes ago.

HOSE FIRST STEPS AWAY from the Condé Nast building were footfalls of trepidation and anxiety. My mind raced with the thought of bills coming past due; and the rush of blood having to face my family and friends made me positively delirious. As traffic swelled and the cool breezes of New York City in the late afternoon brushed the hair away from my face, I teetered on my heels as I approached the curbside of 42^nd Street waiting for my Town Car--the last Town Car I would expense for the magazine.

As my driver approached, all feeling left my body and my arms collapsed; letting a box of personal items fall to the ground. As it ruptured on the pavement and broke apart--like the gentle wantons at Grand Sichuan--I felt the hot flash of tears across my cheeks. No more Daniel; no molto Mario; no mas tapas: what was I to do now?

I decided that I needed a drink. Not just any drink: but a drank! A serious drinker’s drink--whiskey, bourbon, scotch--the kind of drink imbibed by journalists in the Nixon-era 70s when all hope was gone. A drink that would have felled Keith Richards at Studio 54. Inside the black Lincoln, I instructed my driver to take me to Langan's Bar & Restaurant at 150 West 47^th Street.

Langan’s is a hallowed hall of unmitigated Irish loathing and high spirits. It was also the famed watering hole of the late Steve Dunleavy, the renowned rightwing New York Post columnist: a charming Aussie I’d encountered many times in the past and admired for his unapologetic joie de vive.

I walked up the steps to the bar, pushed a barstool aside and glared at the man behind the stick: “I’ll have a double Crown Royal. Neat.” Then I flipped my hair and sat down.

As Eddie Money blared annoyingly over the sound system, the bartender returned with my glass. I might have stood out among the hoi polloi in my tight black Donna Karan power-suit (a trinket of my Times glory days): but I cared not. I wished to sail aloft the hedonistic gossamer clouds of alcohol. In this case, and at that moment: Canadian rye.

I took a small sip, nervously; almost shaking. A warm, thick taste coated my tongue and I lolled it around my mouth, pursing my lips and savoring its’ smoky flavor. In seconds I felt the uncomfortable burn as it moved to the back of my throat, tauntingly. And yet it tasted so good! It tasted like … freedom! I quickly took another sip, then another; greedily gorging myself on the viscous sting of rebellion and repressed teenage angst! I clasped my hands firmly around the base of the long, tall glass and stroked it as I brought it up to my wet, hungry mouth. I wondered if I could take it all …

I locked my legs against the back of my chair and braced myself. Leaning back and thrusting my chest forward, I drew the glass to my mouth and sucked back at the devilishly delightful taste, taking all of that hot power in my last gulp of its staggeringly large load: filling my cheeks like a winter’s gray squirrel in Central Park. I bobbed my head forward and back for a moment, savoring the overwhelming majesty of this new dark brown friend of mine … (Or was it foe?) Then I swallowed. I swallowed every last drop and was fully compelled to lick that big glass from top to bottom in an effort to savor every moment of perfection. Exhaling, I felt the alcohol move between my lips and breathed its ecstasy into my flaring nostrils.

I dropped a twenty on the bar, turned on my heels and strolled out into the gleaming city of New York at twilight. In that instant I had matured from a jilted, weepy mistress and transformed like a phoenix into a fiery angel of retribution. A voracious succubus of all things alcohol … in heels! And I wanted more--much more!

I called to my driver as I scorched the pavement with my stilettos: “Buckle up, baby: It’s going to be a long night and a bumpy ride!”

1. Bamboo socks

5. Quality, Iranian-grown pistachios

Viennese Waltz
The opening notes of Strauss fill the auditorium. Famed professional dancer Cheryl Burke makes a spectacular entrance in a Marie Antoinette ball gown, flipping her ruffles to reveal provocative pantaloons. From across the stage former Majority Leader Tom DeLay emerges from the bowels of a V-2 rocket. He appears dashing in an SS-Obergruppenführer uniform complete with a bejeweled Totenkopf emblem atop his peaked hat. The pair initially executes a series of perfunctory fleckerls, but then DeLay blows a whistle and 200 former aides appear clad as Unterscharführers to “upset the recount.” Judges Bruno, Carrie Ann, and Len try patiently to explain that, as yet, there has not been a “count,” and they warn that the goosestep is not conducive to the waltz’s canter pivots. DeLay then invites Burke to join him in an impromptu Bavarian “chicken dance,” however, Burke is hiding in the V-2 rocket, along with the show’s ethnic minorities.

Bolero
The unmistakable 3/4 rhythm of the Cuban bolero begins with DeLay alone on the stage. “The Hammer” insists that Burke be suspended for one dance for straying from dance party lines. When the judges warn DeLay that he’ll no doubt be penalized for his solo bolero, they are shackled and carted off by seven U.S. Treasury Department agents for transgressing Cuban embargo laws related to the dance. DeLay’s ensuing contra-move, followed by an inexplicable demi-plié adds confusion and a sense of panic to an already dizzying dans-de-force.

Horah
With the backdrop made to look like an ornate shtetl, a group of Aryan youths circle around a Christmas tree. DeLay instructs the orchestra to “put a cork in it,” then presents a scintillating PowerPoint in which he explains how essential it is that—at least for now—the U.S. partner up with Israel’s Jews. He argues that premillennial dispensationalism “sounds way too important to ignore.” The ex-congressman from Texas further asserts that eventually Jews will either have to convert to Christianity or “git dealt with” sometime around Armageddon, which is “coming soon, like maybe even next year or the year after that.” DeLay finishes with a flourish, executing a spirited Temani as Burke is taken in for questioning. DeLay then informs the audience that “sometimes terrorists can look like partial Filipinos.” The judges award DeLay and Burke three 10s, in the name of Jesus Christ, who DeLay assures us is in his head, riding just behind his Pons on an ivory-white pony.

Lambada
Thrilled beyond measure that this sexy Brazilian dance has aroused in him “genital commotion,” a sweaty and awkward DeLay gingerly adjusts his thong leotard causing the embroidered blue silk globe attached in the groin region to rotate like a disco ball. An inspired costume designer has cross-stitched “Ordem e Progreso” around the equator, and the crowd reads the message aloud as the little world turns. It’s a daring ensemble, but what does this unconventional though sensual paean to S. & M. portend? DeLay demands to be flayed by two priests after replacing Cheryl Burke with Louis Van Amstel , the equally sweaty, yet decidedly less awkward expert in movement dynamics and seven-time Dutch National Amateur Dance Champion. In an especially provocative backlead by the former House Whip, the two tumble provocatively off the stage. Embarrassed now, they get up hurriedly and run to the dressing room glissade en arrière. Though the Texas cowboy is an audience favorite, the judges look less than favorably on this unique performance and award him no points. Incensed, DeLay announces plans to impeach, grousing, “That ol’ dog just won’t hunt,” while furiously pounding into a BlackBerry.

Freestyle
Some call it gerrymandering, some call it redistricting, but everybody is familiar with Jive, the dirty little sister of the Jitterbug. As DeLay (uninhibited now by his discredited partner), executes the challenging weight changes of the chassées, he pauses dramatically, announcing strategic seating changes. “Mexicans and Latinos--unless they’re the same thang--need to move up a few levels into the cheapie seats. Orientals can stay put, I s'pose. Let’s move the Caucasians to the front, Negros to the back and also anyone who went to Vassar, go to the back.” The new judges are impressed at how successfully DeLay manipulates the audience—really gets them into his dance and its implications. Members of the audience march dutifully in 4/4 time, to their newly designated sections, the old blues rhythm plays on and on.

There is nothing we love more on this green Earth than traveling the lay of our great nation and listening to the stupid stuff that people say. We consider ourselves pleasant conversationalists and witty raconteurs, and there is no more lovely an afternoon than one spent chitchatting with our adoring public. But we get maybe one paragraph into one of our really good stories (like, for example, the one about how we wound up eating Cheerios out of Kathy Lee Gifford's brassiere cups) and--some knucklehead interrupts us. And when they do so, they inevitably say something that utterly annoys us.¹

It should be noted that we are rarely upset by the substance of what people say. We are tolerant men, men willing to consider various points of view on the topics of the day. ² But what we cannot fathom, accept, or endorse are people who say stupid things stupidly. We're not too hot on people who say smart things stupidly either. And don't even get us started on people who say anything at all that contains the word "dialogue" used as a verb.

Let us dialogue with you right now: American tongues are a battlefield, and we aim to bring out the heavy-gauge shotguns to defend all that is normal, plain, and unpretentious. William Safire we may not be³, but here is our list of the most irritating, illogical, and cumbersome word abuses and usages out there right now.

The Word "Conflicted," as in "To Feel Conflict"
Like so much else that's wrong with today's world, this disquieting usage must be laid at the feet of people who want to talk about their feelings. There was a time when a person would say, "I'm confused" or "I'm torn" or even the good old "Huh?" Today, however, the pseudo-scientific field of therapy has given us "conflictedness."⁴ So, upon arriving back at D.M.T. headquarters, we might hear someone say, "I am conflicted about whether to smoke this bowl now or to wait for Uncle Larry to arrive, because I suspect he will suck it up like a fucking Hoover." This is a ridiculous way to express doubt or confusion. But more importantly, the person who is "conflicted" seeks to take their common problem and elevate to the level of jargon-requiring intellectual debate. Maybe, maybe, Hamlet was "conflicted" about whether to kill his slutty mom. You? You're just an attention-grabbing vocab-trendmeister with a problem. Namely that we are going to kick your ass if we ever hear you use the word "conflicted" again.

People Who Say "Often" by Pronouncing the "T"
This is a classic example of something that is stupidly being perpetuated in the name of class or correctness. We cannot sufficiently stress how mind-bogglingly pretentious it is to say "off-Ton," but at the same time we firmly believe that 90% of the people who do this actually do it out of ignorance. We once asked someone why they said this, and the reply was, "Isn't that how British people say it?" No. And even if it were, we find aspirations to be/seem British deeply disquieting⁵. This peculiar combination of attempted superiority and flat-out ignorance seems to us to be a trademark move, the kind of thing that only Americans can really pull off. We'll concede this: maybe fifteen years ago you had an aunt ("Ahhhhnt") who said "often" this way, and we excuse her because she used to slip you a fiver on the sly on the occasional Sunday afternoon. Since she passed into the next life, we can no longer tolerate this.

The Word "Liaise," as in "He Will Liaise with Marketing."
This cannot cannot cannot be a word. Why? Because it is just damned unpleasant. Which of course never got in the way of such hits as "moist" and "loincloth," but this unfortunate formulation just rubs a cheese grater on the back of our frontal lobes every time we hear it. But wait!, you protest. The Merriam-Webster Online states that "liaise" is an example of a "back-formation," through which a new word is extracted from another, perfectly legitimate word on the assumption that it must exist, etymologically, although it does not.⁶ Coming from "liaison," of course. Apparently the verb "to edit" is a similar thing, cruelly wrenched from the bowels of "editor," which is of course a real word. We admire the pluck of those who do such things and feel they offer promising evidence that language is fluid and changes to meet the needs of the interlocutor. But their inventions are often just stupid. This one sure is.

Spelling "Theater" Like This: "Theatre"
If you live in Gloucester or some other British place with a spelling wholly unrelated to its pronunciation, well, you can spell things however you like. (See our tremendous tolerance for the English and our utter intolerance the Anglophilic, Footnote 5, infra.) But here in the good ol' U.S. of A., where we prize simplicity and down-home wisdom, things will be spelled American-style, thank you. Those who spell "theater" with the "r" and the "e" transposed are doing it for one reason and one reason only: to pathetically attempt to justify their low-wage, artistically suspect "career" in the theater by fancying up a perfectly serviceable word. This, we assert, is the equivalent of forcing the poor word to wear a black turtleneck and black tights, no matter what the weather, and demanding that it smoke Natural American Spirit cigarettes while discussing Brechtian alienation. This may have been fine when you were an undergrad at Wesleyan, but this is the real world. Cut this out or we will send David Mamet and Sam Shepard⁷ to your house to curse you and wail on you, respectively. Another way of looking at it is this: do doctors spell it "sphinctre" just to make your ass seem a little more classy? No. No they do not.

Goyim Who Use Yiddish Too Much
It pains us to crack this particularly bitter bottle of Manischewitz, since we are exactly these people⁸. But the cold, hard, week-old kugel of it is that loving that Leo Rosten book and feeling you have acquired a deep appreciation of how well Yiddish expresses sentiments wholly inaccessible to regular, old English does not authorize you to start throwing the shit around like some watchmaker from an E.L. Doctorow novel. We cringe at that scene in A Mighty Wind. If you use any Yiddish beyond "spiel," which we think has fully crossed over, you are probably out-of-bounds. This doesn't mean we're going to stop. Just that we realize how silly we sound. And that you have to stop, because you clearly do not realize.

Next Edition: "Hands-free" cell-phone users who are making it increasingly hard to determine which New Yorkers are merely annoyingly busy and which New Yorkers are talking to themselves like raving lunatics.