Failed Attempts by Traditional Print Media to Enter the Urban Market

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Betta' Cribs and Joints

Working Baby Momma

Pimpwatch

Supply Chain Woompty Woomp

Playa's Digest

Hoopty Dumpty

Set Trippin' and Leisure

Harvard Business Booyow

AN INTERVIEW WITH A YOUNG MANHATTANITE WHO BORROWED A FRIEND'S CAR FOR THE MONTH OF AUGUST

Q: What kind of car have you borrowed?
A: It's a midnight blue turbo Saab with a sun/moon roof, six-CD changer in the trunk, power everything, and a tiger-striped baby seat that I can't figure out how to remove because they took the key to the lock with them. Clearly they did this on purpose. But they don’t know that I know a guy who has the ultimate set of tools.

Q: How has parking it been?
A: It's not unlike getting tested for herpes. You debate whether to get the test in the first place. You count the people you've been with and discuss with your inner voices the possibilities of them being carriers. You stand on the toilet to get a good look at yourself in the mirror above the sink (which you never realized was so high up) and contort yourself like a Coney Island freak trying to hold in a fart just to get a good look, which you think will provide you comfort though you have no idea what herpes looks like. Then when you do manage to work up the gumption to go to the penis doc and you tell him your history, he laughs at you and says, "Fuck those HMOs. Let's test you for everything and rack up a huge bill!" Which is to say, you feel so relieved and giddy once you find a damn spot that you look for someone to rob. It's a high, man. Try it.

Q: Is there any chance of you cruising the Upper East Side to fool rich girls into hanging out with you?
A: Yes. In fact, once Toby Young loans me his bespoke pin-stripe suit I have more exciting plans for those ladies than Martin Amis does with his dentist.

Q: Why did your friends agreed to leave their car with you?
A: NASCAR dads are the hot new demo (soccer moms turned out to be the lesbians-until-graduation of the '90s) and if I'm not on the cutting edge, getting targeted by the media the most, than I am dead to me.

Q: Will it pain you mercifully to have to go back to that sorry mode of transportation you call a bike and give up your elite status?
A: No. In fact, I just got it back from your mom. And if I can get all her leg hair out of the gears it will suit me just fine. Dick.

Celebrity Sighting

Chris "Jesus" Ferguson playing Texas Hold'Em at Binion's last Saturday night.

Someday, when The Farm grows old and we all go our way, a documentary maker will remember us fondly, wonder what became of us, spark a hide-and-seek among the glitterati for remenants of our existence, subpeona Google's 50-year-old cache just to find an Interview we once did with a young Manhattanite...

Who we kidding, we'll be lucky if this Wilfred Brimley farts his bran cereal wind our way.

Apply Today!

Just like other big blogs and such, the Farm is attempting to capitalize on its newfound position at the height of fashion by hiring an intern. Having someone to boss around without having to pay them is a badge of honor we so wish to pin on our “I Fucked Lasagnafarm.com” t-shirts for when we hobnob with the other of the media elite at one fabulous NYC function or other. We want someone who will do our bidding without question, unlike the other stubborn people in our lives, and always with a goofy grin. Of course, as we are high-powered media professionals, there are a few requirements for the job. No exceptions:

1.) No webbed hands or feet. This is gross.
2.) A penchant for phat rhymes and 22” dubs
3.) A family recipe for bisque, proudly handed down from generation to generation.
4.) Several teeth missing
5.) The panache of a young Robert Benchley
6.) The aplomb of a young Gary Busey
7.) The Rolodex of a young Dana Giacchetto
8.) Goes "commando" several times per week
9.) Did not cry while reading Dave Eggers’ ”You Shall Know Our Velocity”
10.) Did cry while reading the novelization of Mariah Carey’s “Glitter”

Everyone loves them. The Farm is no better than everyone.

To Do List:

1. Become gay so pop culture will write about me for a change.
2. Give up my house in the Catskills I rented before the 'Skills blew up, I swear.
3. Reminisce about the days when I was Kate Moss and publishing was publishing, dammit.
4. Find out what the hell "an 'anything can happen' vibe—almost Japanese performance art" means.
5. Laundry.

Seven Workplace Signs the Economy Is Picking Up

1.) The firm doesn't bother to renew its disgruntled-employee massacre insurance policy.

2.) The puddle on the floor in the men's room is stocked with trout.

3.) Pictures of flowerboxes and sleeping cats have been painted over the boarded-up office windows to make the place seem "cheerier."

4.) Employees stop burning debris in their cubicles for warmth.

5.) The company picnic is held at a park instead of in the back of an old van.

6.) The office supply closet contains more than an empty fifth of Thunderbird and a tattered copy of Swank.

7.) The HR department begins handing out oranges to alleviate the office scurvy epidemic.

Hitchens' Rope-a-Dope on Hope

I've never seen such a yawning lack of forehandedness from Mr. Hitchens in choosing his skewerage. Bob Hope? For God's sake, man. That's like throwing grandpa a left hook for puncuating his tired reminiscences with "by cracky."