Scott Boras' secret underground lair features all kinds of evil, but no sharks with laser beams on their forehead. In the story, he convinces Hemingway to order the $750 tofu because it's better than a prime rib, presenting an 800-page book "proving" that tofu is what they eat in heaven, and pointing at a table that seems to be empty, but is, according to Boras, full of people who will scoop up that last plate of tofu. An enraged Hemingway shoots and kills Boras. None of this happened, but it's nice to imagine. Just like this.
Tom Wolfe chronicles the fascinating excesses of the now-close-to-extinct Wall Street Money-Mongers, and the term "Merry Pranksters," takes on a whole new, unfathomably evil meaning.
This collection of hallucinations from Iditarod racers would make for a really awesome, really trippy Robert Frost poem.
There was a model stampede yesterday in NYC. Yes, really. Imagine dozens of models running in slow motion, tackling each other, grabbing and pushing at each other, crawling over ... (gazes wistfully into distance). I'm sorry, what?
I could sit and "listen" to Paul Rudd and Jason Segel talk to each other all day.
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