There's an old warning, never pick a fight with a man who buys ink by the barrel. You'd think the Internet-age applications of that maxim would be clear, but apparently not. So let's be explicit: When attempting to game a contest run by a notoriously bitchy blog, don't send a mass email announcing your intention. It's bound to get forwarded around and end up someplace where it will embarrass you. Like, say, here:

A quick reminder, folks, that we'll be accepting nominations for Men of the Times till noon tomorrow.

It's summer, and it's hot, and it's sticky, and it's sultry, and our thoughts, like everyone else's in this pulsating, pervy sexy, are turning to sex. And because we're unusually unusual, when our thoughts turn to sex they turn to a very specific kink: media sex. We don't care about lawyer love, broker boinks, or finance guys fucking; we're just interested in writhing writers, canoodling columnists, fondling photogs.