This week’s New Yorker includes a small “Talk of the Town” piece about some much-beloved, much-enjoyed mounds, mounds that require careful tending and attention and have been romped on with enthusiasm and vigor. Gawker pointed out that there were certain, er, associations evoked by the article (well, pointed it out only to those prurient enough to have already made that connection), and we were relieved that we were not alone in said prurience.
No, we’re not alone – upon a closer read, this week’s New Yorker totally joins us. First, there is the poem on page 50. Free, unrhymed verse always sounds so terribly smart, but this one doesn’t fool us – any poem that has some guy “heaving between” a woman’s “long, bare legs” – in a graveyard, no less! – is the kind of stuff Jeff Seagall used to make us pay a quarter to read in his parent’s basement back in sixth grade. I blush to quote, but there was some talk of someone’s head “riding up and down” to, uh, “restart” someone else, while a panting dog looked on. When did Wolcott start guest-editing the New Yorker?
Leaving dirty poetry aside, I moved on to “Shouts and Murmurs.” Hi, Serious Writer Ian Frazier, how are you? Oh, look, it’s called “Chinese Arithmetic,” we like math, what fun! We start reading. It’s about a guy with an unceasing, relentless boner. (Hi, Serious Writer Ian Frazier, how are you?). Seriously, this boner won’t go away! He explains why not, in agonizing priapic detail, over the course of 850 words. It’s too bad he doesn’t know the girl from the poem. He should go play on the mounds. I bet that would help.
*Have you found something dirty in The New Yorker? Let us know at firstname.lastname@example.org. But remember, we’re a family-friendly blog.