As annoyed as you may be by all of our Roshan-felching, allow us to tell you how truly terrible the situation is on our end: We just schlepped a promised bottle of champagne across town in return for a fucking copy of Radar. That's 40 minutes we will NEVER get back, and we're mighty pissed. We know, yes, that you never asked Gawker to go this far, but this is our personal Terri Schiavo, and we'll be outside the hospice until the cops send us home.

So thank you, Maer Roshan, for making us work so hard — but was it worth it? Well, we'll just quote another lucky soul blessed with a preview copy:

radar just doesn't translate. who is he trying to reach? you of course. if you grew up reading spy and suddenly devolved into a teenage girl who now reads nylon for your fashion and music sense. and is random dated and obscure gossip too lengthy to consume in weekly e-mails from popbitch? you can now read it only four times a year in radar. and if you prefer hard hitting journalism that is also seasonal you can read about our troops in the iraq desert this summer while lounging by the pool at the hard rock hotel and casino in las vegas.

Strike Three. And It's Out? [The Life Vicarious]