Vanity UNFair — OOH, BURN!

I hate computers that aren’t mine.
Especially computers that erase the entire entry I was writing.
I have been in about seven states in the past two weeks, and I’m currently in Chicago for Jordan’s high school, and I want nothing more than to get back home to MY computer with MY resolution and MY favorites list and MY bed and I want to eat when and where I want and I’m very tired of being a guest and pretending I’m happy all the time and I like talking to people. So very tired.
But this entry isn’t about me. Directly.
You see, I am here to forward along a story I was told via mass email from comedian Mike Birbiglia, regarding an article in the May issue of Vanity Fair.
Now, I’m sure you all read Vanity Fair just as much as I do — not at all.
But he stumbled upon an article written by a Mr. James Wolcott about how comedy is no good anymore since Johnny left the scene. This article can be found here, but I couldn’t force myself to get past the first page. I’m not even offended as a comedian (if I can even venture to call myself one) or even as a comedy connoisseur, but as a layman audience member.
This article reads like some kid’s sixth-grade book report, where he not only didn’t bother to read the book, but he didn’t even watch the movie or finish reading the blurb on the back of the box.
It would be like me writing an article in a doctor’s journal about how much I hate doctors who prescribe Goldfish brand crackers instead of medicine. Not only is it wrong and unfounded in doctors’ circles, but any street idiot would be able to tell that I’m full of shit and just complaining to hear myself complain.
But, enough of my rants, Mike Birbiglia wrote a letter to the editor that he’s so sure won’t be published, he passed it along to his mailing list, and I pass it along to all of you because it needs to be read by the masses.
Plus, if it’s read by all of you, the average I.Q. of the readers of the unpublished Letter to the Editor will be so far above that of Vanity Fair’s readership, all those housewives would nearly choke on their bonbons and make them late for Mackenzie’s soccer practice if they even tried to think about it.
Speaking of housewives that I hate, you should know that this particular issue of Vanity Fair had the Desparate Housewives scantily clad by a pool.
So here’s Birbigs’ story.
Dear Vanity Fair,
So the other night I

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