What the hell, Smith?
It is increasingly rare, in this day and age, to observe stark, raw, pure sexism in the pages of a major metropolitan newspaper. Oh, it’s there, don’t get me wrong — but writers and editors usually have the good sense to filter it through obfuscating language and rhetorical devices, leaving readers to dig out the subtext themselves. And that’s what’s sort of remarkable about Kyle Smith’s New York Post review of the Golden Globes, which became yesterday’s essential hate-read: this shit is pure as the driven snow. This is uncut. If it were cocaine, it’d be sitting in a mountainous pile on Tony Montana’s desk.
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