Remember how the Nothing invaded the fantasy land in The Neverending Story? It's happening to comedy. Un-comedy is in the show "Tim and Eric Awesome Show Great Job" (and much else on Adult Swim); it's in the New Yorker; and McSweeney's, the writhing heart of the Nothing, has infected Esquire with it. In a piece titled "Joke" McSweeney's writer Deb Olin Unferth tells an intentionally stupid story. Am I too dumb to get whatever clever point Unferth is making, or is this really the worst "so unfunny it's funny" story ever to appear in a publication not edited by Dave Eggers? (Don't worry, there's a plain text version of the "joke" under the napkin-scribble version shown here, although I bet Unferth wanted to make everyone decipher her handwriting.)

What were the last moments of Heath Ledger's life like? Esquire doesn't have the exclusive! So their reporter Lisa Taddeo added a gimmick to her story about the actor's final days: She wrote her story in the first and second person as the late actor, using Chuck Palahniuk's dramatic narrative style (which is pretty close to Esquire's default). The magazine cleverly introduces the piece as "reported fiction," which means we don't get to know which details of Taddeo's piece are true. So why didn't she just invent the whole thing? That seems easier. [Photo: Getty]

If there were any justice in the world, at all, Gimmick book writer AJ Jacobs would be ashamed of his article in the latest Esquire because it would suck. The article goes like this: Jacobs gets permission from his wife to screw his young hot nanny, drools all over her, pushes the innocent girl into the scuzzy world of online dating, uses her account to flirt with and extract information from suitors and then actually sets her up on dates with a few of these guys, all no doubt so he can write a big article about it in Esquire. The problem is that the article emphatically does not suck, it's actually kind of an awesome read. And Jacobs arguably does his mostly male readers the service of illustrating how disturbing their behavior toward hot women is:

Yesterday, we dismissed as fake the Internet video sensation clip of a reporter getting bird poo in his mouth during a live newscast. But we didn't quite convince Esquire, who has a cute video piece today on reporter bloopers that includes the spoof. As proof, we offer the full mockumentary from SNL guy Jerry Minor, Arrested Development's David Cross, and Bob Odenkirk, in which a fake reporter gives a fake report about a fake bird in a fake documentary for a fake Nigerian soda company commercial. Special appearances by shouting caricatures of Nigerian businessmen. Thanks to TPG.

Esquire's thin January issue (just one feature! Actually, half a feature: part two of a John McCain profile!) has the world's most aggressively infuriating Charles "Chuck" Klosterman column to date. It has such a convincing and thrilling premise—that Klosterman can visually identify which major network a show is on because of subtle changes in color and tone and definition. Oh my God—me too! I think? I swear I can! Wait, can I? No. Because that does not exist, as Chuck then goes on talking about, with the help of some armchair semi-reporting. GRR. To give credit where credit is due, however? A+ for "[I]f you play Explosions in the Sky loud enough, the process of hanging drywall can be a life-altering experience." (Though like he hangs drywall frequently?)

Esquire readers are older and poorer than those of five other, less classy men's mags. The Esquire reader's median household income is a pathetic $53,783, compared to $76,865 for Men's Journal and $65,614 for Maxim. It seems that pictures of ladies in their underwear are somehow more popular with affluent young men than George Clooney! [Folio]

Talk about noticing things tardily—but look how gorgeous the Esquire page design and illustration was in 1960! Holy mackerel. I would buy the holy hell out of that magazine. (Except the Gawker 1960 version would probably be all like, "Oh my God, who is this tired James Baldwin, selling out Harlem to the gentrifiers? And what is with all this white space? OMG, 'white space,' get it?" Sigh.) [Esquire.com]

We hear that Brendan Vaughan, senior editor at chaotic Conde Nast biz mag Portfolio, has quit, and will wisely return to Esquire. Maybe deputy editor Amy Stevens better cancel what we hear is her soon-coming maternity leave—because the departures aren't over yet.

Don't tell Esquire editor-in-chief David Granger that the concept of "magabrands"—magazines that have "extended" their "brands" to new media, old media and non-media"—is out-of-control bankrupt. Esquire North is the magazine's sprawling Harlem three-level condo on Central Park North; each room and everything in it was decorated by an Esquire advertiser. To have the honor of furnishing arcade seats in eel skin in the gaming room, both Kenneth Cole and Intel had to purchase at least one page (ooh!) of advertising. Last night all these brands threw a party for Riverkeeper. We don't care really about fisheries on the Hudson, but we do care about Robert F. Kennedy Jr., who is the main litigator for the environmental outfit. He is so boyishly handsome and so charismatic and so, well, Kennedy-like! Semi-socialite Melissa Berkelhammer stood alone near the panini bar as Kennedy gave a speech. And—was she wearing a sad pony mask?

I recently started receiving Esquire magazine! (There were air miles to be disposed of, so why not?) And so one came the other week and I sat down and read it. Not sure which issue it was, I think the new one, they all look alike—as in, I just looked at every cover this year and I can't identify which one I read from either word or pictures (what with their covers being a weird corporate last echo of Ray Gun). It was okay! Slightly irritating was that the whole magazine was one long listicle, with "bits" crammed into every corner of every page. The winky hetero-laddishness was a little irksome too, but I know I'm not their target subscriber, not being a credit-card loving, manscaping, overcoat-buying fathead, so I can brush that off. But then yesterday the magazine went and did themselves so wrong. They republished the classic 1966 Gay Talese piece "Frank Sinatra Has A Cold" online.

Esquire is no longer just polluting L.A. metaphorically. [Esquire]

Taking aim at the celebrity profile in general—and Tom Junod's "cringe-inducing" Esquire story about Angelina Jolie in specific—Slate's Ron Rosenbaum unloads with both barrels.

Esquire's Best-Dressed Man contest is on! Plus, you can rank entrants online! We're putting our energies behind "Robert M." from Niles, IL. Robert defines his personal style by saying "I try not to care too much about what other people think." He's pictured in a head scarf and says, "When the Muslims take over and institute sharia I will be ready, as my pictures attest." Oh and he also says that he and Johnny Depp are "the only ones who could pull of the hijab look and make what is essentially eighth century garb look brand new." Fun! Vote for him!

• In an interview with the Guardian, Conrad Black calls his fraud trial "bullshit" and announces that he's at war with the U.S. government. The paper also has an excerpt from Black's forthcoming biography of Richard Nixon, which praises the former president's "surpassing dignity." Read into that what you will. [Guardian]
  

• Wal-Mart is really, really sorry that they taped a Times reporter's calls. They don't want you to think they're Hewlett-Packard or anything. [NYT]
  

It's Renovation Day on the web! Esquire, that bastion of middlebrow entertainment for men who need at least three beers before they'll go queer, has a shiny new site that appears to offer plenty of current content along with archives. Also, you get up-to-the-moment assessment of Britney Spears from noted Spears expert Chuck Klosterman; distressingly, it's actually pretty good. At the other end of the ledger, Kurt Andersen, who once edited something called, hmm, Sly? No wait, Spy, maybe? Anyway, he's blogging!

• How to pimp your wedding, Louis Vuitton-style. [Paper]
  

At left, the cover of the current issue of Esquire. At right, the poster from the 2003 Pop Montreal festival. Coincidence? Probably. It's not like the Pop poster was reprinted in Print magazine last year when it won a "certificate of excellence" or anything. But, like we always say here, a little George Clooney makes everything more excellent. Consider it a value-added tribute.

In December's Esquire, and in a HuffPo excerpt, screenwriter John Ridley (pictured) eschews pussyfooting around the 'n-word.' He also eschews, um, making any kind of sense.

Keith J. Kelly reports on the forthcoming issue of Esquire: