Who Are You Thankful For? ME!
Oh baby don't I know it!
Well my dear ones, it is that time, time for me to get drunk and weepy and write your thanks to me — ;) — or mine to you, if you insist. Here, thanks to the vagaries of the space-time continuum, it is actually Tuesday. Tonight we are having Fakesgiving; the cranberries are in the oven; because by the time you read this sometime after 11 am eastern on Thursday, I’ll be on a boat!
Fuck. yeah.
Almost 20 years ago, Gawker founded Wonkette. Almost 12 years ago, when I was a spry bitch of 39, I bought it. And some time ago, I threw all the cautions to all the winds and told the online ad industry to go fuck itself, and you all started putting $$$ in our pockets directly. Not all of you, and that’s fine! But many of those among you who have a little extra scratch, or a lot of it, are forking it over to us to spread around as we see fit. And I thank you for reading us and being our friends and lovers whether you’re sticking money in our stocking or not.
I’m not here to do a moneybeg, I don’t think we’ve had to since we moved to substack*? Just … having the money to pay my people, who work fucking hard to bring America and the world absolutely terrible news a lot of the time, and who manage to make it in most cases somehow mirthful … having the money to keep a big beautiful home for my four generations of LOVE PRISONERS … having the money to get my ass on a plane to where my old wealthy friends are taking us on aforesaid BOOOOAAT … the money’s a big part of the reason I’m thankful. Because you’re keeping us going every day, every week, every month, every year for almost a dozen years now.
And that’s *weep weep* (okay I’m not actually weeping yet, it’s only 1:30 pm and I’m only on drink one) special. It’s special because it means you love us. It means we are important. It means you care.
And I love you back. And you are important. And we care for each other.
Shit’s looking dark once again. Things are feeling stormclouds and screaming. We’ve all got a bad feeling about this. But we’ll all still keep showing up and screaming together, and some people will hear us and more people will listen. Something something Arlo Guthrie a movement. It is that time of year after all.
So thank you my loves and terrible ones. Thank you for being part of whatever the hell it is we’ve got going on here. Thank you for being our friends. And I wish you peace and contentment and I wish us all the best possible outcomes over the next year. We’ve got a lot of living fighting to do — but, and I can’t stress this enough, not with each other. Do not make me pull this car over, because I’m not on a car.
BOOOOOOAT.
Now GET OUT!
Love love love,
beccalou
Wonkette
*I just gave the kids a HONKING holiday bonus, don’t tell them yet, so for the first time since we moved to substack, we don’t have two months’ worth of payroll in the bank. If I need to, I’ll moneybeg at you sometime soon!
I AM thankful for Rebecca and for all of you. Thanks for letting me do the silly Tabs things every day, with pay!
The remainder of the husband’s relatives arrived from D.C. and I’m appreciating the family togetherness from my quarantine room. It’s nice to hear them all, even if I can’t be too much a part of it.
I am thankful for VILEAXXE, the brightest spot in my year, though she almost certainly will find that hard to believe.
I am also grudgingly thankful for ALL YOU NUTBALLS not because you have any value in yourselves, but because without you I would not ever have fallen off of a couch trying to sext selfies of my ankles to someone. And truly I say unto you: those who fall off the couch sexting pictures of ankles shall inherit the kingdom of Wonkette.
FURTHERMORE, I suppose I should thank this wild-left commie rag itself, and the trixes, pixels, martinis, playtypers, josephinebakerclones, idahoans, evans, sundayshowatchers, samurai, helpselfhelpers and others who make it all happen. You all are so cool I orgasm a bit each time I ghostwrite all your stories for a week. It's hard work, but I'm happy to do it for free just for the exposure.