My 2,700-word Gawker post On Sleaze: Why The Tabloid Media Is The Rent Boi Of the Apocalypse stands as the best piece of nonfiction writing by anyone, anywhere, at any time, a massive cri de coeur, the Slouching Toward Bethlehem of a generation of narcissistic vipers. The work I did there-outing several closeted gay men, stuffing several straight men back into the closet, destroying the lives of dozens of unknown writers, mocking wedding announcements, publishing the names of CEO mistresses, and just generally committing a bushel of ass-shittery every day-stands as the highlight of my superlative career, even greater than the six consecutive Pulitzer Prizes I won in the 1970s. Gawker was definitely the best, as I’m sure all its former employees who might someday throw me an assignment would agree. I’ve spent decades writing for every English-language publication, and most French-language ones, on both sides of the Atlantic. It’s hard to envision now, given that all of its other editors are now being forced into government-sponsored First Amendment re-education camps, but for the last decade, there was no better place on Earth to work than Gawker. Ernest Hemingway once said to me, “you’re in my seat, you son of a bitch.” But of all my literary accomplishments, none caused the world to quake quite like the time I spent as an editor at. I’ve been the Greatest Living American Writer across countless decades and time zones.
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