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.


  1. The whole affair is nothing more than a tempest in a teapot. If people are shocked, SHOCKED I say, and angry over the New Yorker cover well then they better stock up on blood pressure pills because y’all ain’t seen nuffin’ yet.

    — Kent Shaw

  2. Sure looks to me like sensitivity took a one eighty.

    I’d have to guess, when you’re flush with other peoples cash it tickles.

    Obamatoons and Oops. Welcome.

  3. I’m no artist (and it wouldn’t work here anyway), but I wonder why the New Yorker doesn’t have some of the following “satirical” covers:

    – Cheney blowing off someone’s head with a shotgun
    and saying “oops”

    – A time-bomb ticking in McCain’s swollen cheek

    – A typhoon wiping out a 3rd world country,
    titled “Nature’s own environmental cleanup tool”

    I imagine I could propose some even cruder ideas, but then I’d be doing the New Yorker’s work for them.

    I guess they don’t know the difference between humor, satire, political criticism, bad taste, and libel – it’s all the same to them.

    As Gomer would say: “Shame, shame, shame”

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