I love The New Yorker. No I mean I LOVE it. People often complain that they stack up and they never make it through all the issues. I DEVOUR each issue and wait impatiently for the next to come. It is like my reading heroin.One recent thing I read that I thought was very funny is from Tad Friend's "The Playhouse" (p. 70 / Dec. 18, 2005). It is a piece about his mother.
As a sophmore at Smith, she came in second to Sylvia Plath in a poetry contest judged by W.H Auden..."Just as well I didn't win," she'd say. "Head in the oven, and so forth."
Okay, so I have a macabre sense of humor. Big surprise, huh?