accidental racism :(
Isabel is a spy in the house of love and it’s a house occupied by five perfect halo-haired teenagers
“Mr. Remnick? I’ve made a terrible mistake.”
Pitchfork stole my bit.
Ladies, imagine being a Vice writer. Just walking around everywhere with your entitlement and ennui and midlength penis all gently bouncing in step; wearing a male tank top or a waxed mustache or some shit. Imagine having an ironic, retro-sexist dudebro-voice and getting together with a couple of other white guys and some cocaine and making your not-at-all-different voices all sync up as tautly as your nihilistic senses of humor, then snuggling all up together (no homo!) in a big Bushwick loft of partially employed trust-fund kids while something noninformative is happening on the Internet. What a life. I guess there’s the whole “everyone in the world thinks I’m an asshole” thing to deal with, too, but let’s not split hairs here: Vice writers got it pretty fucking made.
Fine, whatever, the critic kitten thought. I’ll click on that dubstep remix of “Call Me Maybe.” And so.
Happy 12th birthday to the great Robert Hissmeow, cream of American cat critics.