by Maggie Van Ostrand
If you haven’t seen the cover of July 21st issue of The New Yorker, you’re lucky. It’s the most gross, sick and pathetic attempt at satire I’ve ever seen in my life.
I can’t describe it to you because that would only add to the disgrace. Fox will show this more often than they did the Wright byte, and call it “humor.”
As a (former) subscriber of that publication all my adult life, I will miss the way it used to be.
Not Lenny Bruce nor George Carlin nor even rap lyrics made me think that Freedom of the Press could go too far.
This cover does.
Shame on The New Yorker for stooping so low to increase their circulation, which must be in the toilet, where it belongs.