It Takes Two To Have It Both Ways

For those who think there's any bad blood between Young Manhattanite and Gawker, you can feed those fears warm milk and expect heavy snoring. It's bedtime for boners. (We've been tested, all clean.) Saturday night, at one of those cool downtown Purim parties in a synagogue basement, Nick Denton and I chatted like old friends. (I would emphasize the "like" but that's implied, no?) Two sociopaths in a pod.

He is of course My Biggest Fan™ though he can't publicly or privately (maybe even consciously) admit it. It's one of those unspoken understandings that's best conveyed by alcohol's initial urges to begin dancing and direct a head nod across a room full of costumed Jews. In truth and nothing but it, he loves a good shit stirrer and I make his job of dirty-spooning Gawker Media employees easier by doing it for him. Free of charge, I am nothing if not charitable.

Eventually we got closer and one could have mistaken us for a "couple" but I was very careful and positioned myself at a strict 45 degrees from him at all times because I didn't want anyone thinking I'm into the "dude" thing. (I'm sure it's nice pork, if you can get it, but I'm a heavy bleeder and it would cost a fortune on sheets alone.) As we attempted to talk over "Brick House" it wasn't long before a conga line formed around us. That was really the only awkward moment of the evening as I was forced to limbo between his legs. Fortunately he was dressed as Dame Edna in high heels, though his accent wasn't nearly as overarching. He also extended the courtesy of not ripping ass in my face (hello, it's Eva Braun and Hitler on the Berghof veranda!), something I couldn't have resisted were the tables turned but that's how I roll my fly. Butter knife stylee and all.

We retired to the cushioned sidelines and I offered to buy him a drink. (It was open bar. Ha! That joke never gets old and he didn't get it, as usual.) Finally when we got so drunk as to not be able to tell the difference between blessed be Coen and cursed be Spiers, he admitted Chris Mohney was a fiasco while managing Gawker. "Good guy" they like to say around the clubhouse and "destined to do great things" but it was evident that managing Gawker wasn't one of them. Call it the Curse of Gridskipper (The Mohney's Paw?) but that course was plotted up the Bearing-with-it Sea without padding from the pistol start. This was clear during his first week on the job. At the time I told Lock as much but he pleaded "As always with any change, let's see how things stand in one month, yes?"

No. I mean, yes and no. Fast forward a full moon cycle, make sure to calculate the mean syzygya and factor in corrections for a synodic month or two, and even the listless fill-in Gawker Lite girls couldn't mouth "great tastes" due to his clumsy and frustrating dry-docking. The gravitational pull on everyone's nu balls wasn't helping either. Gawker Media had a Category 5 her-a-drain on their hands and Denton's cheapness is so legendary that it was no surprise to anyone when the levees broke. (How far will I go with this? I'll probably stop right before they make The Assimilated Negro croon about his mammy.) You know the rest, Law of the Jugular: Nick and Lock threw Mohney overboard because when the ship is stinking fast, you gotta feed the sharks the biggest guy on deck. Balk was heavily considered but this was no time to kill the sacrificial lame. It was punishment enough to keep him babysitting the young ones. The poor guy even had to concoct his own comedic "get-er-done" catch phrase so people wouldn't mistake his ace material for the ramblings of publishing Neopets, btw.

[Hey Mohney, just between us. Ask Lock to look you in the eye and explain why you were fired. He couldn't do it with Oxfeld but maybe you're different and easier to lie to at 4am when the beer is warm but free. Make him swear on the lives of family members. That shit always works. But please, stop blaming me for everything. Sure, Denton reads what I write pretty seriously and no doubt it factored into the decision but my nose blood is not on the last straw. And Intern Heather, ask Lock what the "worst part" of hiring you was. It rhymes with four bends and oddly, inhibitors. We'll dive further into the Book of Steele when the California Sunshine Effect wears off.]

Anyway, where the hell were we? Oh yeah, my sly Haman-hand is inching down the back of Denton's pants. Yes, he waxes and my fingers soon smelled of bleach. He admitted the ban on Young Manhattanite and all things related to me is very real (Julia Allison had to sign a special NDKA before her most recent photo shoot), it's just the cost of doing business in this blog-eat-bag-of-dicks world. I totally understand. I am nothing if not risk-aware. But the ban extends farther than I originally thought.

In fact, he said not only are they prohibited from linking or mentioning, but it's a standing order to not even read YM. Why? I dunzo, and this might be the wine walking in circles, but I think it has something to do with screwing their heads too tightly and the girls shitting out an inferiority complex. Apparently I have higher breasts and a bigger IQ than them. Sorry about that. Do more push-ups or read a magazine without pictures. Something! On the plus side (man, again with the titty sizes), signs of life from Balk have been detected since Choire busted up Mohney's poop party on the plank walk. I hope this doesn't mean he will he re-lobotomized.

Oh yeah, what about that old new-old guy? The original contagonist comes back with fresh ink on his hands and sass-tickling feathers in his cap. Most likely the receiver of Denton's ransom to make the return (you think he's in it for a resumé-builder?), Choire is doing admirably well even if Judy has lost some of her punch this time around. (That's pronounced JEW-day.)

Alsdfgajkdgd, y'all.