The post concludes: “And there’s this gem of poetic literary load-of-old from the beginning of Satellite, Rain:

‘We stared up at the sky, waiting for a tear in the clouds...’

Clouds are made of vapour, my dear Gay friend, droplets of condensed water. They do not tear. Paper tears. Skin tears. Arseholes tear - even Gay ones.”

First off, we don’t care if you’re foreign: If you’re writing about an American magazine, you spell assholes without an r. Second, this complaint—that the sky cannot tear—is it for real? Is this person unaware of figuration? Third, blogger, if you’re reading this, and we know you are: make another gay joke, and we will fuck your homophobic ass up.

But then, this is the paradox of the Internet: despite its vastness, it is really a very cozy, even claustrophobic, place. One minute you’re tweeting about how much Alain de Botton sucks, and the next he’s tweeting back. We’re all in this darkened room together, rubbing shoulders, overhearing our name in far-off conversations, and, yes, tearing the occasional arsehole.

The Editors,

Wag’s Revue