Asexual reproduction is alive and well and living in Park Slope, because, frankly, nothing else could explain why all these people have children when, it is quite clear from their emails, none of them have had sex so far this century.
An excerpt from Gawker: 
It’s all pleasantly, kookily amusing, right? Not quite. In summarized form, yes, it’s amusing enough. But we had a chance to read the entire exchange — stretching on for days, with charges of political correctness and anti-political correctness, sexism and stereotyping — and we’re much less amused. The whole thing is after the jump; prepare to be intrigued, amazed, disgusted — and quite certain you could never, ever be paid enough to move out there.
The whole sordid drama is available here, if your life does not already contain enough inferior and pretentious people to whom you can condescend.
Sculpture is a paradoxical medium. Often provoking (It looks like Britney Spears giving birth on a bearskin rug, but it isn’t really Britney Spears giving birth on a bearskin rug, wow, that’s confusing, y’all. Art is hard!) yet equally often irresistably attracting, it confounds as it engages. We adore, yet we recognize the falsehood inherent in the artist’s physical manifestation of an actual, yet independent subject; do we worship, or abhor?
Sometimes both. Two-part post. Sometimes the difference between appreciation and loathing just comes down to a point of view.
A mother was working in the kitchen, listening to her five-year-old son playing with his new electric train in the living room. She heard the train stop and her son saying, "All of you bastards who want off, get the fuck off now, cause we're in a hurry! and all of you bastards who are getting on, get the fuck on, cause we're going down the tracks".
The horrified mother went in and told her son, "We don't use that kind of language in this house. Now I want you to go to your room and stay there for TWO HOURS. When you come out, you may play with your train, but I want you to use nice language."
Two hours later, the son came out of the bedroom and resumed playing with his train. Soon the train stopped and the mother heard her son say, "All passengers who are disembarking the train, please remember to take all of your belongings with you. We thank you for travelling with us today and hope your trip was a pleasant one."
She hears the little boy continue, "For those of you just boarding, we ask you to stow all of your hand luggage under your seat. Remember, there is no smoking on the train. We hope you will have a pleasant and relaxing journey with us today."
As the mother began to smile, the child added……….
"For those of you who are pissed off about the TWO HOUR delay, please see the fat bitch in the kitchen."
What's next? First I'm quoted in the Daily Mirror (the MIRROR, ffs y'all; I don't even live in the UK!) so far out of context my snippet needs its own passport.*
Now, Tina Brown, Tina Fucking Brown, files a report about witnessing first-hand the lesbian crack orgies of a strung-out former gospel singer. Tina also spends a great deal of time running around the house picking up the skanktastic used sex toys of the so-called "power dyke." I guess when you got OCD you got OCD, eh? Word to the wise: Wellbutrin.
Paying Tina Brown a reported $200,000 was well worth every penny!
Tina Brown says that it's common knowledge…that Whitney has affairs with women.
[The strung-out former gospel star's] appetite to pleasure her pussy is so powerful that she has a massive collection of sex toys…
"They are all around the damn house," says Tina. "I'm constantly having to get them up. I don't want the kids to find them."
No indeed! What would happen to little George Frederick's future and peace of mind, should he stumble upon a lube-encrusted, vrroooooooming Purple Pussy Popper?
Si, where are you when she needs you? O, how the mighty have fallen. I bet she's sorry she ever left Vanity Fair.
raincoaster 