Ah, the New Yorker . . .

. . . the only place on earth where frontingets its terminal g:

  “Fronting,” v., bluffing, posturing, pretending to be something one is not. Putting forth a false identity. It seemed to embody the current moment, one in which the newspapers were full of people who were full of it: an abandoned-baby hoax; a fictionalized diary entitled “The Last Days of Heath Ledger,” in Esquire; not one but two faked memoirs (Holocaust survivor, gangbanger). “Fronting”: the word of the week.

You can feel for Laura Collins–the pursed lips of the New Yorker‘s style police haunt this “Talk of the Town” item throughout.

But don’t take the bald, doughy, 36-yr-old white academic’s word for it: Here’s the KRS you’re looking for.

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2 Responses to Ah, the New Yorker . . .

  1. FrothyMcBaldman says:

    Well, this sort of ruins my plans to spend the day cold lamping.

  2. Alex says:

    To say nothing of MC frontalot…http://frontalot.com

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