To The Curb, and Step on It!

I don't know whether to be outraged or, er, hit myself with a non-stick pan. It seems that private club for NYC anglophiliacs, the Soho house, made poor Choioreieio [SIC] of Gawker an offer he couldn't refuse: Stop the goddamn gossip or vacate the wet room posthaste! We once had a reverie about taking Amanda Hearst on a zebra-skin throw rug, but was interupted by the sounds of screaming outside our window (don't ask). Now, without an insider to defer to, we will be forced to create a complex, false identity complete with Web sites, faux Swiss bank accounts, Helmut Lang knockoffs, and stolen credit cards to gain entrance to that institution. Too bad SH screams "over" louder than an acceptance letter from Radar. What am I talking about? Who the fuck cares.