Dear Jack Stuef, Do You Think You Owe Wonkette Some Of That Treasure?
Yesterday, as I was taking the day off for "tired," we all got an anonymous email, forcing me to hop into the chat cave and shout GODDAMMIT YOU FUCKERS HEAR JACK STUEF FOUND THE TREASURE? "Yes," they said, and that was that and then I left again lest the couch start missing my voluminous ass. Forrest Fenn's treasure, a chest of doubloons and gems and pre-Colombian artifacts, and probably your mom, last night, had been found in Wyoming in June, where the warm waters end, under the house of Brown, by the blaze, something something.
At least five people had died seeking the treasure in the past 10 years before Stuef, then still anonymous, used his mastery of "words" to finally find it.
Hot fucking damn! Jack Stuef! Who?
Let us whoosh whoosh wavy lines to the before times, no, farther, the Before Rebecca Even Bought Wonkette Times, when she was just another unemployed journalist doing unemployed journalist things (couch: ass). Back then, your Wonkette was owned by this dude Ken Layne, who had bought it from Gawker. And why did he sell it to me? Because Jack Stuef had almost broken it, almost singlehandedly, when Layne had grown weary of "editing" things and just let people post what fucking ever. And one of those what fucking evers was a happy birthday post Stuef wrote to Trig Palin, Sarah Palin's youngest son. (Whether he is Palin's birth son is an entirely different kettle, and if we are talking about conspiracy theories whose hills I will die on, you can count me in for "Diebold stole Ohio for Bush," "George W. Bush was absolutely wearing an earpiece for his Kerry debate," and "Only as regards Sarah Palin's fake pregnancy, Andrew Sullivan was absolutely right, for once in his godforsaken life.") It was a messed up post, even for the days when it was pretty normal to say the "r-word" that means developmentally disabled, and also to use it as a noun :/
But then the Right did a thing they love to do all the time, led as I recall by Dana Loesch and Breitbart, and it was to cancel-culture Wonkette via a very loud boycott, which totally worked and all the rich people stopped advertising with us even though "boycotts" and "cancel culture" are now the worst thing in the world you can do to somebody, so you will now by force enjoy your Hispano-American beans.
So Layne sold it and that is how I came to own Wonkette, and then made it ad-free, YOU'RE WELCOME.
So maybe Jack Stuef doesn't actually owe us any of his treasure, but maybe Ken Layne would like some.
Which brings us to YOU, dear avid reader of this here mommyblog, and how today is your MONTHLY REMINDER that we are ad-free because ads suck and we don't want them and you don't want them, and even if Jack Stuef hadn't broken your Wonkette, he is not singlehandedly responsible for breaking "online ad networks," which are terrible nonsense that
no longer exist exist in greater numbers than ever before because of how none of them pays more than a penny.
Wonkette in fact is healthier financially than it ever was when we sold your precious data to any stranger who came knocking, and it's because we are funded by our readers who unaccountably still want us around. We doubled our full-time writing staff to four this year, up from "none" when I bought this bitch, and we've got an editing staff of me, a part-time staff of my husband and my son what prints your merches, and a freelance corps of excellence.
While our long national nightmare is limping to its natural end, you still need us to explain the news, dig into policy, and point and laugh at the assholes who are still legion. So keep us going forever, please, with a recurring monthly donation today if you can, or a one-time donation to sock in the kids' Christmas stocking bonuses, if the thought of a monthly subscription makes you itch with gonorrhaeic syph.
Also, Jack Stuef came to our party in New York once, when we marched on Drinking Liberally and bought them all beers, and I'm really not mad at him. I'd still be sitting on my unemployed ass eight years later if he hadn't done that thing, instead of sitting on my overemployed ass whining about "work."
YAY FRIENDS! It all works out in the end.
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.