Every morning I get out of bed for that temp in midtown who's sitting there already crying because she is so bored. We blogs are the voice of the underclass. The people who send in stuff to me are the assistant at Vanity Fair, the poor girl who just tripped and fell in the Condé Nast cafeteria. They are abused not just by corporate culture but by celebrity culture, and something cracks and they have to vent. Their revenge? Schadenfreude!
-- Jessica Coen
The Observer, December 5, 2004

Before I begin, I need to look up that German word in the last sentence.

"Enjoyment obtained at the trouble of others." Good one, Jess, and thanks for dragging yourself out of bed every morning. I know your hands are chapped and cracked from hours in the chilling cold and your muscles are aching from straining against the weight of the sledge day in, day out. Truly, yours is a thankless labor. But I thank you nonetheless.

So I know what you're thinking: Fuck them New York Jews. I want to know why you do it?

Good question, better answer: Quite simply, because my blog saves souls.

Each morning I gaze down upon my glorious body, taut as it is with tough, well-defined muscle, and completely hairless. It is fine machinery that that might look impossible to tire, but it is not. Sometimes, I'll admit, I wonder whether it's sane to try and top myself yet again; whether I'll be able to tap that wellspring of genius and pull up the sweet, golden stuff that nourishes the bodies, minds, and souls of so many. Sure, I'd like to hit the snooze bar and leave my good work to one of His Pasty Majesty Denton's retinue. Who in my position wouldn't? I wouldn't, that's who, because that would mean letting you down.

And by "you" I don't only mean you. I mean "you" more in the "vosotros" sense or, to get-down grammatically, in the "ya'll" sense. I mean you, Haji, sitting cross-legged atop your camel, chewing your cud as you cross the mighty Sahara in search of an oasis. That oasis is me. I mean you, Kunta, traditional necklace of shrunken heads around your neck and spear held high above as you sprint through the bush in search of sweet wildebeast meat. That wildebeast is me. I mean you, Nanook, nestled in your igloo amazingly made of unmelting ice even as you rub your hands over a carefully tended fire searching for warmth. That warmth is me.

For my work is not merely for the underclasses. My works is for all classes, genders, and creeds. Be you Jew, Christian, Muslim, Buddhist, Hindu, or some other oddball fucking thing, I am your voice. Be you old or young, male or female, straight or gay female, I am your voice. My work is for all people, be they black, white, yellow, brown, or red.

But mostly, it is for white.

Gawker might be the voice of the underclass, but The Spoonbender is for all.

Also, if you tripped in the Condé Nast cafeteria, it's because you're clumsy and are probably wearing the kind of shoes that say, "I'll trade you a rim job for an assignment during fashion week." I'm not for you, twat.

Analogcabin @ 3:49 PM
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