i don't subscribe to nor do i buy vanity fair. occasionally i will peruse it (or vogue) if i feel my self-esteem is getting too high -- nothing like glossy photos of bony actresses and models trying to convince me i need to smell like a combination of ylang ylang, lavender, roses, and milk from the udder of a cow born in sweden but raised in japan being sold as a perfume named something like "murder" to remind me that i am an unattractive, smelly person undeserving of love and success. thank you conde nast!
all that is to explain why i just now found out about this glorious piece written by one christopher hitchens.
enjoy. . or get irate like i did.
since i'm more mature than him i just have one thing to say to mr. hitchens: assface.