If you were wealthy enough to afford your own private jet, probably the last thing you would want to do is stock it with things that reminded you of Abercrombie & Fitch, right?

Earlier this week, Gawker received a series of emails forwarded from an employee of a well-known New York media nonprofit. For the woman who wrote them, they are a record of the Universe's single-minded objective to deprive her of her kombucha. For the people who read them, they are a six-month documentation of one woman's descent into madness.

If you were the editor of Utah Valley Magazine, and you needed a headline to accompany your editor's note for the "Women's Issue," and you had selected this photograph of your female staffers to illustrate it, what would you pick for a headline? How about the one thing the photo most certainly does not depict?

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.

Here's a joke I made up just now: How do you make it appealing for a man on Halloween to leave the house dressed as a racist, sexist, homophobic, alcoholic liar with a history of sexually assaulting women? Give up? Call it a Don Draper costume.

From the outskirts of Harrison, Ark., take Highway 7 North about seven miles. Take a right by the Conoco, down Zinc Road, past the green cow pastures and the farmhouses and four low-slung churches. After seven miles, the road appears to head straight into a wall of trees, before veering left and plunging down a long hill. Over the railroad tracks, where the paving gives way to a dusty, rock-strewn rutted path, bear left on Lead Hill Road. Your pace will slow. This is a road for pickup trucks, not a rented Ford Fusion. Pass a few scattered mobile homes with turkeys and geese wandering, and some poor cows stuck navigating a farm placed on a steep hill. Mostly, pass scraggly trees. At three points, a tiny creek cuts across the dirt road, and you'll have to gun it through a flowing puddle to move ahead. After a couple of miles of this, arrive at a steep, rocky driveway flanked by a gate and a lone American flag.