A few weeks ago, Glamour’s dudeitor-in-chief Shane Skaarsgard was having lunch with his fellow dudeiters (Dirk “Hammster” Hamm of New York Magazine and Gregg Scottttt) when Hamm ordered a sparkling wine.
“I was like, ‘Dude! You want a sparkler?’” said Scottttt. “‘You piece of fucking shit. You sicken me to the pit of my withered soul.’”
Shit talk began. The other dudes can’t recall what drinks they had ordered, but they were almost certainly more dudely.
“We were giving Hammster a hard time because it distracted us from our own bone-deep self-loathing,” Skaarsgard recalled. “But once he pointed out that the argument was as meaningless as every breath in my gray, meaningless lungs, the playful banter lost its luster.”
They ate the rest of their lunch in silence.
“They’re the next generation,” said Andrew Kilstein, editor of Newsweek. “Further proof that there is no arc to history, and human ‘progress’ is a myth. We propagate and we die. That is all.”
“Who are you talking about?” joked Lisa Epstein of Condé Nast. “I have never heard of any of these people.”
“Fuck my life,” Skaarsgard chuckled, nursing his Orangina. “Fuck what I’ve become. Every morning I wake up cursing God for having not taken me in my sleep.”
Scottttt takes a more zen approach to life. Near the end of the interview, he blurted out, “I’m happy, though. I really am.”
And then he began to weep.