If you've ever wondered where reality television falls on the authentic to producer-orchestrated scale, I'll offer Evan to you as an answer, a shriveled, timid man whose craft is resurrecting broken cocks.
If you come to Manhattan on St. Patrick's Day, there are scenes to behold of local-nightly-news B-roll pageantry, but really the day is a calamity, a demolition derby of male ego and the limits of human biology.
'Keeping Up with the Kardashians' Is My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy
2015 was the year that the hipster (at least the hard-defined, Look At This Fucking variety) died.
I worked at a bar for five years. It was one of those bars that are there to preserve a moment, a state of being, nothing ever changing; crypts with golden sarcophagi, men who can exist as royalty for all eternity.
Going to the Boardy Bar in Hampton Bays is like venturing inside an ant farm made of bicep and stale pizza crust.
Giuliani is the human manifestation of the 9/11 Enya montage: a flaming disaster, hollow sentimentality, men saluting with a ribbon pinned to their lapel.
Bill O'Reilly is a pestilence to reason, an objection to the concept of critical analysis. He is the spirit child of the segment of America that won't stand for nuance or patience.