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A Gentle Reminder: Do You Want Wonkette TO DIE????

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Hello my loves, it is that time of the month when we remind you that without us YOU WOULD BE DEAD OF CRYING. We know this because you tell us literally every day, "Wonkette, without you I would be dead of crying," when you send us money. BUT! That is only about one percent of you, our readers, who are putting their money where their cryholes are, and WE NEED MORE READERS TO PONY THE FUCK UP. Without money we can not pay our fulltime staff a living wage (and health insurance even!) to call the "president" ever-more-creative versions of "syphilitic," and we could not pay our ever-growing roster of awesome freelancers -- WHOM YOU LOVE -- to bring you news and opinion about all the horrible things in the world, but sort of funny sometimes so you don't kill yourself more than like once a day.

Last month you guys did great; we even had a thousand dollars left over -- which means for the year Wonkette is only down $16,000 -- and $40,000 lifetime -- but don't worry mama consolidated the company credit cards and they'll be paid off in only three years and now there's so much more credit card left to fill up again, so that's ... neat? Fuck it, it's how Trump would do, except for the part where we pay it off. Debt, everyone! It's magical!

We don't want to alarm you, but websites are falling down dead all over the place, because the digital ad industry is loathsome and corrupt. That's why we depend solely on YOU to fund us. Fuck those guys, breaking your browsers and not even paying for the privilege. Let's go from one percent of our readers funding us to 10 percent. Click the donation widget, choose an amount, make it "recurring" if you can, and then CLICK THE PART ON THE BOTTOM where you choose whether to do it via credit card or Paypal. (If you are my mom, you just learned this week that all your $2 tips for Evan NEVER WENT THROUGH because you didn't know to click the payment part. CLICK THE PAYMENT PART.) Hate the internet and want to send a paper check? You can do that at Wonkette, Box 361, Polson MT, 59860. We are working our way through our thank you notes; expect one (MAYBE) in 2019.

Be the change you want to see in Wonkette! Keep us in servers and writers and roadtrips to kiss you and buy you beer! THE BABY NEEDS MORE PEPA PIG TOYS (no she doesn't, but she does need "food"). Have you gone to get your wallet yet? How about now?

DO IT. PRESS THE BUTTON. PRESS IT AGAIN. SEND ALL THE MONEY. VIVA WONKETTE. YOU CAN DO IT. OH MY GOSH YOU JUST DID IT HOORAY!

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Didn't that feel delicious? IT DID.

Rebecca Schoenkopf

Rebecca Schoenkopf is the owner, publisher, and editrix of Wonkette. She is a nice lady, SHUT UP YUH HUH. She is very tired with this fucking nonsense all of the time, and it would be terrific if you sent money to keep this bitch afloat. She is on maternity leave until 2033.

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If it's a day, the New York Times is fucking shit up, but today, it fucked up BIGLY.

Fresh-faced access journalists Adam Goldman and Michael Schmidt have just published what we can only describe as a drive-by shooting against Deputy Attorney General Rod Rosenstein, which reads as some bullshit planted by the White House to give Donald Trump the pretext for his Saturday Night Massacre, if he wants it. (He does.)

Maybe the White House is tired of talking about the flailing nomination of Judge Maybe Rapey and how Paul Manafort and Michael Cohen are cooperating with special counsel Robert Mueller, and the New York Times was more than happy to help!

Or maybe it was planted by former deputy director of the FBI Andrew McCabe, who was fired by Attorney General Jeff Sessions just hours before his pension was set to kick in, and may have a serious axe to grind with DoJ officials and leaked a copy of his own memos. (His lawyer says that's not true, but he would say that, wouldn't he?)

Or maybe it's both, somehow! Or one of many other things!

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It's not every day Golf Digest gets noticed as a source of hard-hitting investigative journalism, at least outside of reviews of titanium carbon fiber nanotech infinite improbability drivers or some such. But Wednesday, some journamalisming that started with a Golf Digest story about a guy who drew fantastic imaginary golf courses concluded with that guy, Valentino Dixon, walking out of Attica prison, 27 years after he'd been sentenced for 39 years to life. Not bad, Golf Digest. We give you a GOLF CLAP. And a Pulitzer if we had one, which, sadly, we don't.

As Golf Digest says, the twists and turns of the case are a bit complex (they're unraveled in more detail in this New York Times story), but it basically comes down to a local prosecutor who was determined to railroad Dixon for the 1991 murder of a 17-year-old, Torriano Jackson, in Buffalo, New York. The conviction involved

shoddy police work, zero physical evidence linking Dixon, conflicting testimony of unreliable witnesses, the videotaped confession to the crime by another man, a public defender who didn't call a witness at trial, and perjury charges against those who said Dixon didn't do it.

Dixon had a prior conviction for selling cocaine, and he made a convenient target for Erie County prosecutor Chris Belling, who was weirdly determined to ignore even statements from the actual killer, LaMarr Scott, who pleaded guilty to the killing shortly before Dixon's release this week.

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