Ug. Retch. Bleeech.
Nope, still haven't gotten it out. OK, true story: I know someone who wrote there. For more than 30 years. You'd know their name. A workhorse and producer. Got fired. Via a note slipped under their fricking apartment door. No phone call. No nothing.
Graydon Carter, this gives me a chance to tell you to kiss my fucking ass on behalf of my friend and everyone else you've obviously been a dickwad to. Uncongratulations.
Thanks for the warning, I almost picked up a copy of Vanity Fair along with my Trapper Keeper and a bag of Pizzarias.