You know what this whole bidding for New York magazine nightmare really needed?

An epic poem. A really bad epic poem.

"He readeth best, who careth best
About things great and small;
But never wants to hear about,
Who s fucking Jerry Hall

Or Paris Hilton s porno tapes
Or Liza s new divorce.
Although when Pecker buys us up,
That s all you ll get, of course."
We had twenty minutes for lunch... [TMFTML]