So I'm watching the season premiere of Mad Men and Don Draper is hanging out late at night alone in the bar of the Royal Hawaiian hotel, and I keep waiting for Don to get up and go bang a waitress because Don Draper is the world's classiest sleazebag, but no. Instead, he befriends a drunken sailor and ends up being the best man at the sailor's beachside wedding, all while staring off into the distance and looking crazy thoughtful because that's how Jon Hamm rolls. Draper, a man whose very existence is an elaborate sales job, has an epiphany on that beach about the hotel he's staying in. When he meets with the client back in New York, he explains that you become a different person when you stay at the Royal Hawaiian. You enter a different state of consciousness, and you don't miss what you left behind. You're not you anymore. You disappear. That's all pretty solid thinking. I know most advertising is terrible, but that doesn't mean someone out there didn't put some insight into it.

Ron Cohen is the CEO of Sig Sauer, the company that produced one of the guns that was used in Friday's Sandy Hook Elementary school massacre. You have probably never heard of Ron Cohen before. I know I never have. I tried to find a decent picture of him this weekend, but I came up empty. He may as well not exist.

Hey you! Ever wondered what food writers REALLY think of Thanksgiving? No? Food writers are assholes and you don't give a shit? Well, tough turkey for you, gravyballs.

So hey, Washington and Colorado legalized weed yesterday, which is AWESOME and makes me want to smoke a bowl and listen to My Bloody Valentine while naked.

If you have children but have yet to learn anything about the terrifying story of a Manhattan nanny who stabbed two children in her care before slashing herself, rest assured, you will learn plenty in the coming days from fellow parents. They'll whisper to you on the playground. Did you hear about the nanny stabbing? They'll go over all the details. She stabbed them in the tub. Can you imagine? They'll plant seeds of fear. If it can happen there, it could happen anywhere, couldn't it? There's nothing parents love more than scaring the living shit out of each other, so between this and the coming Frankenstorm, I now have a full plate of parental scare tactics to both absorb and deploy in the coming weekend.

Here's an ad created by DDB New York for WaterIsLife, a nonprofit organization dedicated to providing clean drinking water to people in developing countries. The ad features a bunch of poor Haitian people reading a bunch of #FirstWorldProblems tweets out loud: "I hate when my phone charger won't reach my bed," "I hate it when I tell them no pickles, and they still give me pickles," etc. The message of the spot is clear: You're an asshole for whining about your problems when you have clean drinking water. Now here is why this spot is fucking terrible:

I'd like to thank presidential candidate Mitt Romney for taking a moment last night to raise binder awareness. But while most of the Internet is occupied today with the women Mitt is putting in those binders and how those women got into his binders to begin with, I think we need to step back for a moment and talk about a larger issue surrounding binders. And that is that they are fucking terrible.

Oh hey, here's a picture of Jennifer Aniston rocking a zillion-carat engagement ring that her fiance, Justin Theroux, "gave" her. Though I assume Aniston bought the ring herself six years ago and stashed it in a safety deposit box until the day she finally found a man who could properly pull off being dressed like a 1930s fighter pilot. This is a big rock. A huge rock. A very expensive, obnoxious, stupid fucking rock.

Gawker is on a quest to determine the most racist city in America. Your contributions are vital to the cause. Please add your insights in the discussion system below. Or if you'd like to nominate another city please send an email here. Today...Pittsburgh, PA.

Earlier this month at Deadspin, I named the five most racist cities in America, but since I'm a privileged white asshole, my list was decidedly lacking. Residents of Philly, in particular, were quick to complain about their omission from the list. They desperately wanted it known that they are among the most racist shitholes and America, and I feel terrible for not obliging them.

I walked outside the other morning and, for the first time in eons, the temperature was below 60 degrees. And I was so excited for the cool air that I pulled my shirt away from my body and let it waft up my torso. "Here, nipples! Taste the refreshment!" Then I immediately ran into the house to announce the conditions to the rest of my family. "It's kinda cool out there! We may need pants!" Pant weather is quickly approaching and now is the time to think about which is the most enjoyable wardrobe for you, the average American man/woman/manwoman.

Reader Tess has alerted me to "The Story of Jess & Russ," a wedding website so remarkably twee, it's like two Wes Anderson movies started fucking each other.

I've done my fair share of joking about dipshit society folks here at Gawker, but it would be disingenuous of me to rip on teenage social climbers, sorority rush coaches, and Gatsbabies without first disclosing my own strange encounter with with the New York Society of Mayflower Descendants.

In this world—the real world, where human beings are made of skin and bones and plasma—you are one of the many poor souls out there fighting to get (or keep) a job, to keep your bank account in the black just so that you can keep the water running and the lights on. You worry about the long-term future. How will I support a family? Is true success beyond the average American? Two decades from now, will I be even worse off than I am now? That's the real world.

Two weeks ago, my power went out thanks to the nasty derecho that hit the mid-Atlantic region. It stayed out for seven days, forcing many people I know to flee the area (as we did), or stay in hotels, or do something to protect themselves in the middle of a record-setting heat wave.

Drew Magary worked in advertising for ten years. SAD MEN is a series of stories from his time in the industry.

Not to be outdone by the New York Times' Ubermenschtastic profile of the Brant Brothers, the New York Observer is doing the world one better and introducing us to the world of... the Gatsbabies, three "preening prepsters" whose flamboyance is taking New York by storm, except that it's not taking New York by storm and I already hate them with the power of a thousand 747 engines.

I think we all know that a wedding is meant to be a bride's special day in the limelight. But there are certain lines of bridal self-aggrandizement you don't cross, and singing Christina Aguilera's "The Right Man" while walking down the aisle crosses that line and then stabs that line in the face with an ice pick. I mean, JESUS. Watch the video in its entirety and you'll feel as awkward as every single guest sitting in the pews. I got two minutes in and nearly shit myself, I felt so mortified. WHY NOT HAVE EIGHT SHIRTLESS GAY MEN CARRY YOU DOWN THE AISLE IN A FUCKING LITTER, LADY? If your goal was to turn your wedding viral without any regard for good taste, congrats. You succeeded. At least you were on key. Look at that poor groom. He looks like he just got hit by a fucking steamroller. I want to kidnap him and feed him Doritos and beer and tell him everything will be okay. If she sings this much during the actual ceremony, God forbid how much singing she does during the reception.

If you haven't read any of the vicious reviews for Aaron Sorkin's The Newsroom—that heartwarming new HBO show about a rich white man who finally finds the COURAGE to be an opinionated dipshit on TV—go read them. They're a hater's delight (Dan Rather's excepted), and they must have gotten under Aaron Sorkin's onion peel-thin skin, because he took time over the weekend to be a complete asshole to Toronto Globe and Mail writer Sarah Nicole Prickett. But before insulting her, he of course had to make a grand statement about WRITING and about WHAT AARON SORKIN THINKS OF THE WORLD TODAY:

We at Gawker have warned you previously that the New York Times Style section exists solely to introduce you to society's biggest shitheads, and yesterday's profile of the Brant Brothers is no exception. At this point, it feels as if the Times is going out of its way to troll us all. No one at that paper could possibly think these two teenagers—who have yet to contribute anything meaningful to society—are inherently interesting. A much more reasonable explanation is that someone at the Times Style section sits down every week and is like, "Oh hey, how can we piss off everyone this week? I KNOW! Let's profile a pair of privileged dipshits!" Look at this fucking article: