Balk Conquers All Media with His Missive Cock
At the end of every school year, plebes at the Naval Academy check their Throckmorton Sign as a throbbing throng of thrusterfucks and attempt to scale a greased 21-foot monument in a rite of passage to the next class. It's good fun, a lot of sloppy and approximately as gay as it sounds. Just look at all the seamen covering the pole; that, whitey pants, is Navy Life.
Blogging has its rituals too, many of them even gayer, but anthropomorphizing one's cock, an old gag in frat comedy circles, dude hangouts and Mary Renault historical novels, was at once elevated and perfected by Alex Balk at Gawker.
When he accepted an editorial position at the venereal blogging institution, we had great hopes for the proud and sole member of the influential blog, The Minor Fall The Major Lift. We used to hang on his every word, not unlike a tug job video. Well, that Alex Balk never showed up for work at Gawker (not in Atlantic City either, I checked) but the one who did fought his way through one unprepared managing editor and one successor who must have crushed his spirit with mass-raping exclamation.
He turned, like most good men in despair, downward to the drawstring of his sweatpants and unleashed a monster on the New York media world - a place where the straight white male had long lost his voice and desperately needed to regain his place with a big swinging dick metaphor. We had given too much to the women and the gays in our press rooms and more so to the ones in blog towers serving lookout. But now we had Balk's Cock to groggily poke them all in the back at sunrise to say "get up you hunka-hunkas, time to play!"
Misogynistic undertones? Nah, dude's too learned for that and you clearly didn't get the joke if you tried to read that far into it. "Mommy likes!" was the general consensus and Gawker readers were delighted to be sprayed with the bounty of his Cock. Like the first ten rows of a Gallagher show, commenters showed up everyday in raincoats and plastic covering for Balk's watered-up melon squishings. As Dennis Miller once riffed, "We're part of it, man!"
Plus, who had time to ponder the pounding of clumsy feminist theory when Balk's Cock was getting squeezed daily through Julia Allison's Rump and Sklar's Rack? It was -- still is, always will be -- pure solid gold, the kind that passes the bite test, to those looking for an honest voice from a largely disingenuous medium. Because let's be real, it takes a dick to speak the truth and slap its salacious smile back to silly.
We dare say he rode that motherloaded fucker all the way to blogging glory on one wheel and two tanks of ass. So what's at the end of the Gawker Rainbow? You hope a pot of pot if you're Emily Gould, but Balk astro-slides into Radar Magazine, head first of course. Presumably he'll get Remy Stern's old desk, a musky coffin filled with Matt Haber love notes. We congratulate him, it's a great move. Actually, any shtick-n-move away from the Gawker trailer park is a great move but we have a genuinely high opinion of Radar and never shied from spit-shining Maer's horn.
As far as post-Gawker careers go, he could have done worse...but also better. Balk has a grasp of comedic dialogue and parodic twists that is unique among his peers, which led us to wager bets he would eventually land a gig as a television writer. The Daily Show, Colbert Report, 30 Rock, Greta Van Susteren or any number of scripted reality shows. We're still holding our breath, just in case.
Gawker alum have helped make shining examples of the new New York magazine and New York Observer -- oddly, no thanks to Elizabeth Spiers/Choire Sicha, the first Gawkers to roll in greener pastures, then become weeds at their respective pubs and now blow aimlessly in after (and return!) Gawker life. With a nod to Neel Shah as well, Radar will be no exception to the list.
We toast Alex Balk and his fading pet cock, may it always be remembered as something more than a fad. Just play it safe or the Jews will make sure to re-attach you with foreskin thick enough to sustain a gay Iranian bombing, which is probably a good thing considering your new boss.
Blogging has its rituals too, many of them even gayer, but anthropomorphizing one's cock, an old gag in frat comedy circles, dude hangouts and Mary Renault historical novels, was at once elevated and perfected by Alex Balk at Gawker.
When he accepted an editorial position at the venereal blogging institution, we had great hopes for the proud and sole member of the influential blog, The Minor Fall The Major Lift. We used to hang on his every word, not unlike a tug job video. Well, that Alex Balk never showed up for work at Gawker (not in Atlantic City either, I checked) but the one who did fought his way through one unprepared managing editor and one successor who must have crushed his spirit with mass-raping exclamation.
He turned, like most good men in despair, downward to the drawstring of his sweatpants and unleashed a monster on the New York media world - a place where the straight white male had long lost his voice and desperately needed to regain his place with a big swinging dick metaphor. We had given too much to the women and the gays in our press rooms and more so to the ones in blog towers serving lookout. But now we had Balk's Cock to groggily poke them all in the back at sunrise to say "get up you hunka-hunkas, time to play!"
Misogynistic undertones? Nah, dude's too learned for that and you clearly didn't get the joke if you tried to read that far into it. "Mommy likes!" was the general consensus and Gawker readers were delighted to be sprayed with the bounty of his Cock. Like the first ten rows of a Gallagher show, commenters showed up everyday in raincoats and plastic covering for Balk's watered-up melon squishings. As Dennis Miller once riffed, "We're part of it, man!"
Plus, who had time to ponder the pounding of clumsy feminist theory when Balk's Cock was getting squeezed daily through Julia Allison's Rump and Sklar's Rack? It was -- still is, always will be -- pure solid gold, the kind that passes the bite test, to those looking for an honest voice from a largely disingenuous medium. Because let's be real, it takes a dick to speak the truth and slap its salacious smile back to silly.
We dare say he rode that motherloaded fucker all the way to blogging glory on one wheel and two tanks of ass. So what's at the end of the Gawker Rainbow? You hope a pot of pot if you're Emily Gould, but Balk astro-slides into Radar Magazine, head first of course. Presumably he'll get Remy Stern's old desk, a musky coffin filled with Matt Haber love notes. We congratulate him, it's a great move. Actually, any shtick-n-move away from the Gawker trailer park is a great move but we have a genuinely high opinion of Radar and never shied from spit-shining Maer's horn.
As far as post-Gawker careers go, he could have done worse...but also better. Balk has a grasp of comedic dialogue and parodic twists that is unique among his peers, which led us to wager bets he would eventually land a gig as a television writer. The Daily Show, Colbert Report, 30 Rock, Greta Van Susteren or any number of scripted reality shows. We're still holding our breath, just in case.
Gawker alum have helped make shining examples of the new New York magazine and New York Observer -- oddly, no thanks to Elizabeth Spiers/Choire Sicha, the first Gawkers to roll in greener pastures, then become weeds at their respective pubs and now blow aimlessly in after (and return!) Gawker life. With a nod to Neel Shah as well, Radar will be no exception to the list.
We toast Alex Balk and his fading pet cock, may it always be remembered as something more than a fad. Just play it safe or the Jews will make sure to re-attach you with foreskin thick enough to sustain a gay Iranian bombing, which is probably a good thing considering your new boss.
