Apologies if you've just barely digested your breakfast, but the economy is dying, you unfeeling bastard, and a murdered bunny* is the only way to truly understand it.

Wednesday morning, a man working for Mitt Romney's presidential campaign described the transition from the primaries to the general election as "a reset button. Everything changes. It's almost like an Etch A Sketch."

Rock's answer to Eeyore, Magnetic Fields brainchild Stephin Merritt, was once accused of being racist for his professed love of the song "Zip-A-Dee Doo-Dah" (from Song of the South, the insanely minstrely black sheep of the Disney catalog) and for not seeming too into black music. Well, two can play that game, as Merritt has called out Adele's legion of fans for some bigotry of their own in an interview with Dan Weiss for L.A. Weekly. Here's how it goes down:

In GQ this month, Claire Hoffman sits down with rapper Drake for the magazine's cover story. Drake is not a horribly interesting person, and celebrity profiling is not usually a horribly interesting craft, but Hoffman wrote a great piece. Within the few hours she spent at the rapper's mansion in The Valley, she essentially lived through a real-life chapter of a 16-year-old's fan fiction. Drake wined and dined her (with white wine spritzers!) in his backyard terrace—complete with waterfalls, bronze animal statues, and a giant fire pit "fit for a king from Middle-earth"—and they watched Sixteen Candles. All that was missing was a bearskin rug.

A brief look at the GQ profile pieces mentioned in this article about female writers profiling male celebrities.

Last Saturday, a few hundred protesters staged a demonstration in lower Manhattan's Zuccotti Park to celebrate the six-month anniversary of Occupy Wall Street. It was almost like old times: chants, arrests, a notable instance of police brutality against a young woman, and New York City Mayor Michael Bloomberg scoffing at the whole thing the day after. Occupy's back! But the next few weeks will be crucial to see if it's still got it.

Male comedians are weird. They jerk off all the time, and then go on stage and talk about jerking off all the time, for money and laughs. But our nation's most hilarious stand-up comic and critically cherished sitcom auteur adds a thrilling twist to his onanistic escapades: He traps unsuspecting women in his hotel room and makes them stick around until he's done.

Science! Just when everyone's having a great time, it comes along and tells us to turn down the music. Or, at the very least, to stop blowing up party balloons with helium, you heathens, because you're ruining some very important experiments.

Not even a baby meatball can stop the sixth season of Jersey Shore. MTV reports that MTV will renew the series for another summer in Seaside Heights, and Snooki—now more than three months pregnant and engaged to boyfriend Jionni LaValle—will remain on the show.

In today's second edition of "Don't Make That Rap Video," Katy Perry covered Kanye and Jay-Z's "Niggas in Paris" over the weekend. It is obviously horrible, but it did leave us with a fascinating chicken-or-egg question: Did Katy Perry beget Karmin, the white-people-rappin' duo featuring Perry doppelganger Amy Heidemann on vocals, or did Karmin's insufferable covers beget Katy Perry trying to be more like Karmin?

Wonder of wonders! Prominent republican and former presidential candidate John McCain has come forward and said something almost entirely sensible about the contraception debate.

Pennsylvania Governor Tom Corbett, the fearless leader who took two years to investigate serious allegations of child rape at his state university, doesn't get what all the fuss about this proposed ultrasound abortion bill is about. When women are forced to sit through a screening of their fetus' ultrasound, he suggests, they can just close their eyes.

As gloomy poet Goethe once said, "Ich denke dein, wenn mir der Sonne schimmer Vom Meere strahlt; Ich denke dein, wenn sich des Mondes Flimmer In Quellen malt." Forget this little mutant rabbit's untimely end and only remember the good times. Til would have wanted it that way.

The most recent article from The Nation's Jeremy Scahill profiled the imprisonment of Yemeni journalist Abdulelah Haider Shaye. For covering American cluster bomb strikes in Yemen and the radicalization of Yemeni citizens and their support for Al Qaeda, Shaye has been beaten and tortured, imprisoned for two years and, at America's request, seen a presidential pardon from Yemen's Ali Abdullah Saleh indefinitely tabled.

Please excuse this brief interruption to your regularly-scheduled programming, but we have a quick announcement to share with you that we hope you'll find exciting: Gawker has teamed up with Longreads, the best source for long-form journalism (etc.) on the web, and we now have our very own page over there.

There's a big story floating around the universe right now, and it's all yours, for $1.5 million.

Clint Eastwood's family has signed on for their very own reality TV series, carrying on the wonderful tradition established by celebrities like the Osbournes, the Hogans, and, of course, the Kardashians. The next step along the way is, logically, Dirty Harry.

You know what season this is? It's hot dog season. Winter's over, baseball's spring training has begun, and people are wearing shorts again. Here in New York, it is time for hot dogs.

As current beef goes, this one is almost as lame as The Weeknd saying that The-Dream looks like the Hamburglar on Twitter, but public name-calling is public name-calling, and so we will share this particularly stupid incident with you: Piers Morgan, CNN's premier ruddy-faced gasbag, is still really pissed at Kate Moss.

You could be forgiven if, on learning of a U.S. Army Staff Sergeant executing 16 people in villages near Kandahar, you secretly wished that he was some virulent racist—a vicious dickhead who slipped through the vetting process.