The very notion of replacing Joe Torre with, of all people, Lou Piniella . . . ugh!

If Piniella becomes available, he will be an appealing free-agent manager. George Steinbrenner, the principal owner of the Yankees, has always adored Piniella, who played and managed for him. In many ways, the emotional Piniella is Steinbrenner's kind of manager because he is the type to shout or throw a chair or fling his cap to the dirt.

What, you mean a fucking infant?

Oh! Oh! Look at me! I'm dismissing Maureen Dowd

Contrary to this piece's subtitle, actually, I *can* dismiss Maureen Dowd--precisely because she is inflammatory and she is generally satisfied with being exclusively that. Traister says, "Dowd has clearly touched a nerve. And you only touch a nerve by telling a truth."

Well, pardon me, but what kind of bullshit is that? Sometimes you touch a nerve because the flesh has been scraped off by having the same old, rusty untruth scraped over it again and again. For instance, "Sex and the City" sociology jangles my nerves not because it's true, but because I'm so appalled at the notion of having complicated lives reduced to anything so facile that even Sarah Jessica Parker can narrate it.

When Salon runs "the trouble with feminism" (or "the trouble with men", or "the trouble with guys who don't wanna date me") pieces like this, I have to remind myself that this is the same magazine where Joan Walsh printed her "Actually, I do want to run the world, and what of it?" column in the wake of the NYT Magazine's piece on women opting out of careers. This magazine is capable of seeing through trend pieces and the memoirs of a narrow stratum of women. So how'd this pointless assemblage of quotations and would-be ahas get through again?

'Phantom' Beats 'Cats' for Longest-Running Show

And third on the all-time list, 'Even More Heinous Piece of Crap'.

"Live girl-on-girl action!
Girls making out with each other to turn on guys is the latest craze at high school and college parties. Is this sexual liberation, or regression?"

Let me thhhhhhink . . . mock-gaily frenching your friend for the gratification of some frat boy asshole who would probably hurl into his white ball cap if he had to deal with a real lesbian . . . gotta be liberation, right?

I'm back to hating everyone again.

Are you fucking kidding me?

Anxiously anticipating the revolution,

Adair

. . . is, I am convinced, stories like this one.

If I did not know awesome people from Missouri and instead had to base my opinion solely on stories like this, I would never quite trust the place.

My favorite line:

In addition to having a badge and a car that seemed to scream law enforcement, Mr. Jakob offered federal drug enforcement help, Mr. Schulte said. (Local officials thought the offer must have somehow grown out of their recent application for a federal grant for radio equipment.)

But that's just me. You may prefer the bit about him naming his false federal agency after a bit in Beverly Hills Cop.

Oy. OY.