Ladies, imagine being a Vice writer. Just walking around everywhere with your entitlement and ennui and midlength penis all gently bouncing in step; wearing a male tank top or a waxed mustache or some shit. Imagine having an ironic, retro-sexist dudebro-voice and getting together with a couple of other white guys and some cocaine and making your not-at-all-different voices all sync up as tautly as your nihilistic senses of humor, then snuggling all up together (no homo!) in a big Bushwick loft of partially employed trust-fund kids while something noninformative is happening on the Internet. What a life. I guess there’s the whole “everyone in the world thinks I’m an asshole” thing to deal with, too, but let’s not split hairs here: Vice writers got it pretty fucking made.
I could add to this based on personal experience, but really, there’s no need. Hit the nail on the head.
Technically Grover is a “monster,” but this isn’t what we originally had in mind.
These distinctive webbed feet belong to a blue-footed booby of the Galápagos Islands. The bluer, the better: Courting males show off with a high-stepping strut—and those with brighter feet are more attractive to potential mates. Photo: Tim Laman
“Hardboiled Egg Hunt,” Art Spiegelman, March 31, 1997On newyorker.com, a slide show of imaginative Easter covers from the past two decades: http://nyr.kr/Hkqe9l