For yesterday‘s contest, Jonathan gave a strong argument:
First New Yorker showdown, just to see who will be taking on Veronica Geng in the finals. All the other contestants are just for show. I’m going with Liebling, because Parker wasn’t even the best New Yorker writer of her generation, being edged out by Benchley. Liebling dominated his era. If it comes down to Liebling vs. Geng, we’ll just exhume Harold Ross and make him pick.
But we’re looking for a talker, not a writer, so I’ll have to go with Dzhaughn:
After the Seance, we were chatting about the inspiration for this tournament. I said I thought Bruno was just a minor intellectual swindler rather than a real threat. Dorothy replied:
I used to think Latour was just something on a Schwinn dealer’s list*, but that was before I saw Julia’s child Oscar wildly strong-arm Lance with an ephronedrine-filled syringe merrily down the Streep, past a sidewalk cafe where the turing Pele and big bejeweled #23, in Brooks’ Brothers suits, were yakking over Smirnoff Martinis, eating a pile of franks, caesar salads, and some weirder dishes. James was on the phone, taking the TV network to hell and back over “letting that degenerate George Karl off the hook” for some remark, when, from behind a bush, sudden as a python, out springs teen-aged Babe D.-Z, among others! That geng didn’t look like they were here to serenade us with arias from Yardbird, that jazz oprah about Parker! No, they were there to revolt–air their own grievances–and when he stood to object, Babe just shoved LeBron and all his LeBling back onto LaPlace where he sat: Oof!
A bit of recursion is usually a good plan.
For today it’s the French Chef vs. the Chairman of the Board. Frank’s got a less screechy voice, but Julia should be able to handle the refreshments. Any thoughts?