AN INTERVIEW WITH A SENIOR EDITOR AT A MARKET RESEARCH COMPANY, W/ APOLOGIES TO MEDIABISTRO.COM’S SIMILAR Q/A FORMAT, AND A NOD TOWARD GAWKER, THEM WHAT FOLLOW THE MEDIA ELITE, LIKE OUR MAN HERE
Q: It's common knowledge that everyone in publishing has a trust fund. Where did your money come from?
A: I am self-made. One day, when I was a small boy in Outer Bologna, my papa told me, as we gazed upon several undernourished cows that had wandered on to our verdant pasture to die, "Rico, my boy, summa day, alla dis a' gonna belong to Don Moltogrosso, since I owe'a him 75 billion Lire froma' da Bills game. Sammanabitchen' Scott Norwood! Bastardo!" "Pa," I said, "whew, is there a dead polecat in your mouth? Suck on a lozenge or something." From that moment forward, I vowed to avenge my papa's torturous breath by duping the elderly out of their savings. I was so successful that I created a wealth-building system called "Dupe the Elderly and Take Their Savings: A Wealth-Building System," which I sell on TV.
Q: It seems that editors in NYC get to go to all the cool parties. Did you go the Entertainment Weekly IT List party, and who did you see?
A: Yes, of course I did. And I was resplendant in faux pearls and black espadrilles. It was a brilliantine night. At first, I noticed the crowd was much less fashionable than I had been expecting. Lots of balding white guys with several communications devices clipped to their belts. Then I realized I was at the Technology Weekly *IT* List party. I paged my driver, Zjlgo, who said he had spotted a post-coital Jessica Simpson and celeb chef Bobby Flay sneaking through a nearby alley. We followed them to what we found to be the proper soiree, and, after a few well-placed Jeffersons, I was in the door. Staff then led me up to the Red Carpet through a bulkhead reserved for the kitchen's daily pickups of reclamed duck fat. There I was, under the sparkle of flashbulbs like the diamonds on J-Lo's Dustbuster. I waved to an approaching Frenchie Davis, but, as she stumbled on a piece of ginger shrimp that had fallen from a flap of skin behind Joan Rivers' left ear, I succeeded only in wedging my hand into her cleavage like a country veterinarian delivering a breech calf. But I had fun.
Q: It's common knowledge that everyone in publishing has a trust fund. Where did your money come from?
A: I am self-made. One day, when I was a small boy in Outer Bologna, my papa told me, as we gazed upon several undernourished cows that had wandered on to our verdant pasture to die, "Rico, my boy, summa day, alla dis a' gonna belong to Don Moltogrosso, since I owe'a him 75 billion Lire froma' da Bills game. Sammanabitchen' Scott Norwood! Bastardo!" "Pa," I said, "whew, is there a dead polecat in your mouth? Suck on a lozenge or something." From that moment forward, I vowed to avenge my papa's torturous breath by duping the elderly out of their savings. I was so successful that I created a wealth-building system called "Dupe the Elderly and Take Their Savings: A Wealth-Building System," which I sell on TV.
Q: It seems that editors in NYC get to go to all the cool parties. Did you go the Entertainment Weekly IT List party, and who did you see?
A: Yes, of course I did. And I was resplendant in faux pearls and black espadrilles. It was a brilliantine night. At first, I noticed the crowd was much less fashionable than I had been expecting. Lots of balding white guys with several communications devices clipped to their belts. Then I realized I was at the Technology Weekly *IT* List party. I paged my driver, Zjlgo, who said he had spotted a post-coital Jessica Simpson and celeb chef Bobby Flay sneaking through a nearby alley. We followed them to what we found to be the proper soiree, and, after a few well-placed Jeffersons, I was in the door. Staff then led me up to the Red Carpet through a bulkhead reserved for the kitchen's daily pickups of reclamed duck fat. There I was, under the sparkle of flashbulbs like the diamonds on J-Lo's Dustbuster. I waved to an approaching Frenchie Davis, but, as she stumbled on a piece of ginger shrimp that had fallen from a flap of skin behind Joan Rivers' left ear, I succeeded only in wedging my hand into her cleavage like a country veterinarian delivering a breech calf. But I had fun.
posted by kiddigit at 12:38 PM
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