By CHRIS PACKHAM
I've reached the unpleasant point this morning of figuring out what goes above the jump, and today I just don't have the energy. It's Daily Briefs, y'all, we are Bone Thug Ironists 4 Life. We apologize for the lack of above-the-jump content and are escalating your trouble ticket to the first level supervisor.
Today, I wrote some hateful things about the world's fanciest magazine and Billy Joel, and you can read them by clicking here or on the rich, satisfying aroma of Daily Briefs:
Great Moments in Fancy Publishing: Fancy Canadian journalist Tyler "Untypeable Name" Brûlé started a fancy London-based magazine in 2007 with the un-fucking-believable name Monocle, which has to be the omega point for fancy lad semiotics; I'd now like to apologize for my letter to the editor of Ascot magazine suggesting that he wears tights and reads Helen Fielding novels while enjoying a sit-down pee. I haven't seen a periodical so completely up-front about its editorial imperative since... really, I'm gonna have to say Fabulous Fatties. You just immediately know what you're getting.
Monocle's globalist editorial thrust informs, I guess, this article about Kansas City, Mo., which you are not allowed to read if you're not a subscriber. They're so serious about their impenetrable subscription firewall that it actually costs twice as much to subscribe to Monocle as it does to pick it up on the gilded news stand inside the Fifth Avenue Tiffany's in Manhattan. At least I assume it's available there, since they don't carry it at the gas station where I pick up Fabulous Fatties every month. At any rate, the article is entitled "Heartland of Gold — Kansas City," and is prefaced with this tease:
This month in our series on emerging business hubs, we visit Kansas City, Missouri, where big companies and small start-ups are investing in America's heartland. Meanwhile the region's low prices are also luring in new residents. But if the city really wants to rebrand itself, some of those small-town attitudes need to be addressed.
To find out what the demographic of global capitalists who wear yachting caps and keep greyhounds think about Kansas City and our unaddressed small-town attitudes, you'll have to pay 15 Euros, or — a bargain, if you think about the currency market — 10 Americos. And I hope I don't sound too provincial when I suggest that blood-diamond-encrusted writer Ryan D. Blitstein and publisher Tyler "Shwa-umlaut-cedilla" Brûlé shove their gilt-edged subscriber cards up their delicate, aristocratic buttholes.
We are all one, y'all: In a voter outreach effort to win over the "denim-clad dad" and "relaxed-fit mom" constituencies, superannuated rockers Billy Joel and Bruce Springsteen will combine to form a geriatric Voltron of blandcore alt-generica stadium rock in support of the candidacy of presumptive President Barack Obama. The concert is at the Hammerstein Ballroom in New York City on October 16th, and man is it ever going to suck. Sure, I've made it a personal policy to avoid crowds of people who know all the words to "We Didn't Start the Fire," but seriously: I actually do realize I'm a pop-cultural outlier and admittedly kind of a bitch. (Sexy bitch -- ed.)
For instance, there was the time when I said something bad about annoying cartoon Animaniacs and hurt some feelings. And I'm pretty much on-record about my attitude regarding the Archer Daniels Midland-sponsored 38-year-long monotone drone of National Public Radio. It's pretty inexcusably snotty. And in case you think I'm just giving myself sideways compliments for being a specialsnowflake, remember that I also believe everyone, including myself, is nothing but a nexus of mechanistic biological imperatives spun out by some simple neuron-based algorithmic function deep in the limbic system. BUT: At least we have fingerprints and varying degrees of tolerance for Billy Joel to tell each other apart, right? Hey, not to change the subject, but right here in the middle of this paragraph I thought up my new DJ name: I am now DJ Chipotle Aioli, y'all. What's your DJ name?
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