Pub Crawls Made Easier With Hamptons Hopper?

This summer the Hamptons will be graced with an alternative to Pink Tuna and the Hampton Jitney. Some whippersnapper entrepreneurs have come up with the Hamptons Hopper, a new venture designed to ferry drunk and self-important Abercrombie models to all the night spots from Montauk to Hampton Bays.

Using converted school buses (we can't wait to see the fashionistas try to look cool getting on the small bus), the Hamptons Hopper buses are painted green and boast air conditioning, lounge seating and plugins for iPhones.

In fact, the whole venture is very tech-savvy. Of course, like any business in the Hamptons, you can't just get on the friggin thing; you have to have a "membership," which starts at $20 and your membership card is basically showing the driver your iPhone.

In June, Hamptons Hopper plans to launch an iPhone App that allows you to track when and where the next small bus is heading your drunken way.

They're also hiring. On Board Ambassadors, for one, which is a dick title. You'd be more like a stewardess catering to 20-something booze floozies, but it's a living.

Planning to ride this new bus? Send us pictures and let us know if it's worth the membership. In the meantime, check out their website and Facebook page.

To be fair, I was sort of with this idea until I read: "You will have access to some complimentary refreshments.  Most importantly, you’ll meet a whole bunch of other intelligent and incredibly good-looking members at our stops and on our Hopper vehicles!"

What would a new Hamptons venture be without channeling its inner Derek Zoolander? Answer: one you didn't want to punch in the dick.

Kardashian's Landlord Hounded For Trying To Earn A Buck

So once again we are faced with the completely illogical phenomenon that is the Kardashians. Specifically we're referring to how successful their TV show is, despite the fact that seemingly the whole world wants them to pretty much die.

Fresh off totally reliable news outlet  Page Six of the New York Post, the villagers of Southampton are sharpening their pitchforks and lighting their torches to snuff out Irma Herzog. Her crime? Not responsibly going on welfare for the greater good of Keeping Out With the Kardashians. Herzog is the owner of The Driver's Seat and apparently the space adjacent to the long-standing eatery, which she rented out to the Kardashian girls for their pop-up store "Dash," which they'll be running for the duration of their reality TV show: "Muppets Take The Hamptons." 

Come on. Girl gotta eat.

Ever since word got out that Herzog dared to make a buck by leasing the space, she's been the subject of "harassment and torment," according to the article, which also quoted Jerry Della Femina, who oddly enough didn't blame Obama for the rented space. "She should be brought up on charges," said Della Femina, the Hamptons' resident right-wing lunatic. Suddenly he's anti-capitalism. Funny how that works.

[Hand raised]
-Yes, Hamptonyte Blog, do you have a question?

HB: We do...um...did the people of Southampton honestly think the entire production, public relations, advertising and network team that runs the Kardashian TV franchise would just pack up their trailers and cameras and leave because they couldn't find a place to rent?

-Yes, Hamptonyte Blog, yes, they apparently did.

[Face palm]

SIDEBAR:

We don't watch any of the Kardashian shows, so could someone tell us if Kourtney has trouble walking or something? Why is it that every picture of the two girls in the Hamptons shows Khloe leading her sister around like a pet Orangutan?

Observe:

Alec Baldwin's Wife Must Have Had A Shitty Dad

In another installment of Human Bratz Doll Gina Glickman-Giordan's hard-hitting investigation of the Hamptons we all know as "Whispers," our favorite brown-noser bopped all the way to "Yoga Gives" in Southampton and went all gonzo journalism on us.

Embedded in the dark trenches of an underworld known as Yogis, she braved degradation, humiliation, perspiration, and possibly even death to deliver us an insider's look at how the rich exorcise and cleanse from the horrors and stresses of being rich. Hunter S. Thompson would have been proud. Proud that he refrained from shooting her.

In either event, after dropping the very important fact that she was not wearing Yoga clothes, she was wearing her "Lululemon finest yoga attire," she got into the purpose of her visit. To seek out and delve deeply into the life and times of Hilaria Thomas Baldwin, newly minted wife of actor Alec Baldwin.

What did we learn? First and foremost that despite our constant urge to finish her name with an "S" by calling her "Hilarious," it's actually pronounced Ee-larry-ah, which, we also learned, is Spanish for Golddigger "happy."

We also learned that despite Eelarryah's seemingly cest-la-vie attitude and folksy aw-shucksism, she, like most wealthy women in the spotlight, is just as absorbed and cooky, and control-freaky about her body image. When she was apparently accused of donning a "baby bump" at a recent charity event, she tried to control her apeshit, but couldn't, and took to Twitter with: "Shld rumors that I’m pregnant give me a complex about my waistline? How slim do u have to be? This is a serious problem in society.”

Well, really it's just a problem for you, fatty. And clearly you already have a complex about your waistline. Enjoy your beer gut.

We also learned that putting a person's name in bold-face type doesn't make them a celebrity. Who knew?

But most importantly, we learned that Hilaria must have had a really lousy father. "I think anybody would be so lucky to have Alec as a dad.” (Bold-type Gina's, not ours. Of course.)

"I think anybody would be so lucky to have Alec as a dad.” Aw. We can understand where she's coming from. Just check out Alec's new line of Birthday Cards for Children Whose Age You're Unsure Of, Or If In Fact They Are Children At All below:



 Bold-type...Ours.

Hamptons Hosts Ridiculous Hat Convention

We're not sure what this is but our friends at Guest of a Guest captured a photographic essay of people being huddled into a tent and apparently forced to wear ridiculous hats. Our only guess is that it's some sort of Hamptons hazing gone horribly wrong. You have:



Just keep smiling and don't turn around. Do Not Turn Around.











 

 

The hat made from leftover ribbons at the bridal shower.

Air Syria flight attendant flushed accidentally as plane passed over.

After his refusal to wear the baby blue fedora, his captors acquiesced and handed him the equally shameful peach blazer with a handkerchief sticking out of the pocket.

It's not a hat if they have to pin it to your hair. Or, as in this case, allow the bird to keep his talons so he can grip firmly down on the scalp. Her smile is one of controlled pain.

This group tried its best to camoflogue the little one as a white girl by squishing down what was left in their flower garden on top of a nest of lace. Oh, when rich people adopt.

Bride of Barney

You can actually SEE her wondering how ridiculous she looks.

This 4 Non-Blondes wardrobe sale came with a miniature-sized replica of the Mayor of New York City. She wouldn't stop bragging about how much of a steal it was.

She brought enough hat for the two of them, but he kept insisting.

Okay, that's actually Edith Beale, but so long as we're documenting batshit crazy....





 

Celebrities Attempt to Wrap Brains Around Tragedy: Realize They Have No Brains

The real tragedy is in the asking. When Professional Blonde Muppet Gina Glickman-Giordan (whose metamorphasis into pretentious Hamptonyte is now complete with the hyphenated name) asked a room full of VIPs at the Bridehampton Polo Club what they thought of the Aurora, Colorado "Dark Knight" shootings, our only explanation for the answers she got was that they were all high. Someone left the valve open on the helium machine. Someone brought in some special-baked brownies. Our only explanation for Dan's Papers actually publishing the responses is that the newspaper hates them.

The only "celebrity" but sort of isn't one  who came close to a reasoned response was Polo Player Chris Del Gatto, who said "The first thing we think about is our children and that you could be some place as innocuous as a movie theater taking them out for a family evening and something like that happens." If you're looking for clarity after that the closest you can come is Countess LuAnn de Lesseps, who started out on solid footing and then gave us every reason why we should take away her fame. "I think it's terrible and I feel so bad for the families. I have children and everybody has children that they are connected to those people that were there."
Huh? But that was not to be topped by the absolute beauty pageant answer we got from Donna Karan's neer-do-well daughter (whom Glickman felt the need to run down her resume as though she gained all this by herself) Gabby Karan:

"It breaks my heart. I think that we just have to change in our soceity and try to give back a little bit more."

Who knew charity and soup kitchens can stop mass murder?
What this column truly exemplifies is something that sort of strikes at one of the pillars of why we launched Hamptonyte Blog. Just because you're a celebrity, does not mean you should be tapped to give opinions. In fact you probably shouldn't. Because you're a brand. And brands are very touchy not to say anything that even smells of controversy. Okay, that's too long of a pillar, but the lesson stands all the same.

Hate Mail, and Devorah Rose's obnoxious post-Times profile reaction

After our take-down of Devorah Rose, the shameless, self-promoting, celebrity-obsessed suck-up who edits a magazine nobody has physically seen editor of Social Life magazine, we'll admit our shock to see in the comments section of the post, one of her satisfied customers, lying in a Bridgehampton motel bed, smoking a cigarette, breathing in the lingering scent of Rose's perfume long after she got dressed and headed out to be seen...somewhere other than, um, editing something. After a long drag on the cig, "CPT" pounded out this missive:

"You're clearly an idiot and clearly unhappy with your own life. Devorah and a lot of other people are out there doing things with their lives. Oh, and besides the libel, you are flat out lying to readers when you claim Devorah is "admittedly...'more interested in Social Life's parties..." - the biased NYT writer said that, it was not a quote from Devorah. Get a clue, you miserable hack."

Oh, little friend...there are quotes and then there are quotes.

“The first event I went to, the paparazzi were there, and I had my photo taken,” she said. “After that, people started sending me clothes.”

"Ms. Rose bubbled with pride as she described the celebrities at the party."

"When Mr. Stern showed up, Ms. Rose said she nearly cried. “It was the highlight of my night,” she said."

The highlight of her night. Not that she'd written a successful piece, or that she'd discovered something about Beth Stern that was unique and difficult to ascertain, or that she'd put together a solid issue of stories with journalistic integrity. No. She met Howard Stern. So, um...yeah, Devorah Rose is admittedly more interested in Social Life's parties than its content. The libel case against Hamptonyte is hereby...dismissed.

But what's more infuriating than this sycophantic dipshit supporter defending her? Her post-NYT profile Q&A with Abe Gurko, that's what. In it she kvetches about how she was duped into believing that the NYT writer was going to put together a glowing, suck-up review of her life and nonaccomplishments. She thought the profile was going to be all hyperbole and promotion, and chock-full of flattering and congratulatory paragraphs. In short, she thought the profile would be like most of the celebrity profiles that get published in Hamptons magazines! Then this horrible NYT writer goes and ruins it with her "agenda." You know, her agenda. Like being objective. Like not taking Rose's word at face-value. Like reporting the truth when Rose tries to sneak some bullshit through. That agenda. In J-school it's not called an agenda, so you might be more familiar with its other name. Reporting.

Some lines from her Q&A:

"DEVORAH: I was hesitant at first but she put on a quite an act. It wasn’t until right before the article came out that I realized she did, in fact, have ulterior motives" (By ulterior motives she means journalism.)

DEVORAH: The tone of the article does not seems fitting for The New York Times
(Devorah wouldn't know what "tone" is anymore than she knows what "ammonia" is; she's not a journalist.)

DEVORAH:Seeing the photos felt great…but then I read the article. I never knew “self-made” could be a pejorative term. (Self made? One of the most irritating descriptions anyone can assign to themselves. From the NYT piece: "her mother, a physician, moved to Newton, a predominately upscale Jewish suburb of Boston"... "She later said [her father] was a businessman who split his time between Bogotá, Colombia, and Boca Raton, Fla"... "Ms. Rose met Mr. Mitchell at a soiree at the Museum of Modern Art in 2001. “If you start a magazine, I will edit and write for it,” Ms. Rose recalled telling him. He agreed."

Ah, that's so self-made!

DEVORAH: Well, let’s focus on the positive – which requires ignoring High Society

(No. You don't get to needle and scratch backs and wheel and deal your way onto reality shows and then turn around and ignore the very vehicle that landed you the notoriety you have.)

But that's Devorah Rose in a nutshell. As opposed to falling to her knees in disbelief at the good fortune she's had, disproportionate to her talent, she besmirches the few venues she's managed to trick into believing she's worth turning the camera toward. Like The New York Times.

NYTimes profiles most transparent fameball in history

You owe it to yourself to welcome Devorah Rose into your life. If you don't know who she is, well...that upsets her greatly. No outfit to date has put together quite the chronology that Gawker has, about this particularly persistent fameball, but to the uninitiated non-Gawker-reading public, The New York Times has kindly profiled her in the June 8 Sound & Fury Fashion & Style section.

Her trajectory that led her to this nearly 2,000-word profile is torn straight out of the "shotgun blast" approach to fame and success: do everything (writer, actress, model, editor, novelist, reality TV star, casting call hound), be everywhere (Upper East Side, openings at the MoMA, Hamptons in summertime), and sooner or later people will notice you. Despite her multiple forays into every form of camera-chasing possible, alas, she's mostly known as the Editor of Social Life magazine, a glossy Hamptons mag that, similar to Loch Ness, I've only heard about...never actually seen. (And I live out here. Very weird.) Aside from that, she enjoyed a brief splash of small-screen notoriety as the girl who ran out on her spindly legs and tossed her drink at another girl at one of her stupid, self-congratulating pool parties on the one-and-done show High Society.

The profile attempts at objectivity and even a little snark. It calls her out for lying about her 100% involvement in all her cover shoots (apparently Beth Ostrovsky Stern supplied Devorah with this month's cover photo for her silly magazine Social Life)

But all the snark in the world can not rescue the Times from the simple fact that the publication of record, The Gray Lady itself, actually went and profiled the worst person alive this phony, fame-starved asswipe.

Nothing about her is impressive, or entrepreneurial, or even interesting. She's the girl we all knew in high school who did two things: 1. found out where the popular kids hung out. 2. her hair. Now she rubs elbows with the beautiful people and pretends that all the hatred and bad karma that continuously befalls her is merely testament to her importance. It's the grossest case of incestuous legitimacy since Julia Allison. From having enough money to attend fiction writing classes in the extremely-difficult-to-get-into Columbia University MFA program, to meeting her publisher at a museum and blowing him promising him to edit his magazine if he launches one, she's nothing short of every other attractive woman who manages to convince guys to give them what they want. If she were reading this blog post (and she's not) she would stop right here to glory in the fact that I called her "attractive." She's Anna Nicole Smith without the stripper pole. Nothing more.

One of the more poignantly obnoxious moments in the NYT piece? When the reporter asks about her family background, she pulls a celebrity diva act and waves the question off with a hand, stating "I think we can move on." Why the reporter didn't get up and say "I think I'll move on too, to someone who's actually done something and wants to share their story" is beyond me.

So thanks, New York Times. Appreciate the legitimacy you just gave a girl who admittedly was "more interested in Social Life's parties than its content," launched by a guy who started the magazine because he also liked going to parties.

Read the profile yourself. Then wonder if the world didn't really end on May 21, 2011 after all.

Fabulosity Navel-Gazers Wanted

Either there are not enough, or there can never be too many, we're not sure, but another lifestyle outlet is looking for another lifestyle writer to contribute to another lifestyle blog that covers the fabulous lifestyles of the absolutely fabulous this summer.

We found this posting on Craigslist while looking for actual real work. Haute Living is looking to extend its coverage of the most important unimportant people as they take their importance east for the summer.

Why should you? The perks, people, the perks!

• invites to the hottest parties (pretty important)


• a chance to write for an "established brand" like Haute Living (very important)


• opportunities to make "high-end" contacts (how high-end? How about Gwyneth Paltrow's pool-boy?!)


• a way to expand your online presence (the most important)


• an opportunity to fine-tune your suicide note

Good luck. But remember, you must be willing to document your drool on Facebook. And the Twitter.

Work For A NYTimes Blogger, Turned Restaurant Owner!

Bruce Buschel, the restaurant owner who recently bitched out readers on his New York Times blog You're The Boss, is now looking to hire just about every position it takes to run a restaurant. Why? Well, maybe it has something to do with the fact that he posts the personal woes of his employees on his blog. Or maybe it has something to do with his overall lack of sympathy for staffers who believe that if they get behind the wheel in the midst of an east-end snowstorm, they'll die. Or maybe it's because he assumes his servers, by nature of their lowly stations, will never attend a book release party, or film premiere.

Either way, he's looking to fill the following positions. Be ready for a 10-day training period and, at the end of it, to be able to recite not only the menu, but Southfork Kitchen's "philosophy." Whatever that means. Godspeed:

He's looking for Cooks

He's looking for Front Of The House staff

He's looking for a Dining Room Manager

The Blog That Keeps On Giving

We love Patrick McLaughlin, and his blog, Hamptons Chatter, which, like Patrick himself, underwent a facelift recently. Bravo!

This week's installment is one of those blog posts that give pretext for the author to go on about his social status. We're all impressed with his former Upper West Side address, just as we are impressed with his unproven taste in restaurants. But...it was nice to hear about some restaurants that deliver to your door, and Patrick supplies a nice list, even if, in the middle of a post about how lazy he is to get in his car to satiate himself, he tells his readers to get off our lazy butts and look up the phone numbers and addresses of the eateries.

Of course he did. What would a self-important, superior Patrick McLaughlin blog post be without a little Grrrrrr in it?

Rescue An Underprivileged Hamptons Partier Today!

It's rare that you get an opportunity like this. To help a team of struggling fame and namewhores, whose only dying wish is to repeat the glamorously good time they had last year! Guest Of A Guest (GofaG) is appealing to corporations' sense of philanthropy, by advertising for someone to "sponsor" their Hamptons party-house rental this summer.

That's right, folks. They had an amazing time last summer. Headbanging to Bon Jovi at the Talkhouse. Pretending to understand Polo in Bridgehampton. Toasting to the good life, and mainlining Bicardi and cocaine with Mary Kate Olsen until she suddenly hopped the fence and started eating her neighbor's bushes.

Now they want a repeat. A do-over. And for just the price of a cup of coffee, you can help this poor group of illiterate, and helpless souls realize their dream. A cup of coffee! A dollar a day.

We know, we know...you're thinking: 'Why should I? What's in it for me?' GofaG has that answer!

"We are excited about a possible partnership that would bring innovative ideas to the table, and is also excited about the value we could hopefully ad to their brand."

There you go. They'll "ad" to your brand, even if they can't spell "add."

So dig deep, friends. Don't be desensitized. Don't click off this blog post because you can't emotionally handle the heartbreak. These people need your help. Think about how sad you'd be if no one came forward to sponsor your parties.

Why We Write

Because literature is the axe that breaks the frozen sea inside us. Because writers hold a mirror to culture and capture all that is beautiful and ugly about the celebration of human existence. Because writers lay down the gauntlet to challenge our preconceived notions of the cultural zeitgeist and body politic.

Or, you can just be Michael Braverman, lunatic at large for Hamptons Magazine, Contributor to Edible East End, and kids-party Ben Kingsley impersonator. He writes because...well...because he's on the east end and he wants to be the 1-millionth person to claim to be an authority on fine living. Visit his blog Hamptons Rich and Pour. Then immediately regret it.

Jay Flagg, Inventor of Real Estate, Can Not Be Stopped

You might slow him down. But he'll catch up. And when he does, he will drag your soul through the slime, flame, and ash of Hades. You will bargain with his red face, but his grinning maw will force you to surrender all hope.

We can now officially say "mogul." This is the mogul we blogged about back in July. Jay Flagg dared to fly too close to the sun, and the powers that be at Prudential Douglas Elliman melted his wings and he plummeted to the earth to live among us mortals. But the folks at PDE were not aware that, like Rocky Balboa, he spent his time down here lifting logs and trudging through snow, and chasing chickens. And now, like the phoenix of old, he has risen from the ashes.

According to this press release from Saunders & Associates, Flagg was discovered cowering behind their building, using the dumpster cover to shelter him from the falling rain. Founder Andrew Saunders was holding the Wall Street Journal over his head and skipping quickly to his Jag when he saw Flagg.

"Are you lost?" he asked. "Do you know where your parents are?" Flagg wiped his runny nose with a dirty sleeve and said nothing. Saunders reached out to grab Flagg's hand, but Flagg quickly bit him and slithered deeper into the recess of the alleyway.

Eventually he was lured out with some warm milk and given a desk, and a new tie, and a hot towel shave, and a Rolodex.

Now the world must prepare, for he is back! Jay Flagg is back! And ready to put his name as big as he wants on as many advertisements as he wants! But Andrew Saunders doesn't know this yet. No one does. Andrew Saunders does not realize the demon he has unleashed. The wrath he has loosed upon the four corners of the earth. He doesn't realize his own doom. The doom of his advertisements. And when the time comes, he may be powerless to do anything.

Said Jay Flagg: "I have decided to join Saunders because of their proven ability to provide superior experiences for clients and customers but most of all for how their talented marketing and technology team empowers their agents and anticipates their needs. Saunders has become 'the' luxury real estate brand and it will be refreshing to work in a company that is entirely focused on the Hamptons instead of an after-thought which is typical of the New York City centric brokerages."

Not a word about how he was shitcanned for boldfacing his name on PDE's ads. Such is the genius of this magnificent bastard!

Kelly Bensimon Sells Clothes For A Cause. Still Manages To Sound Like An Idiot

We know. Ripping apart this broad is low-lying fruit, and we usually try to be fair when someone repugnant does something to benefit humanity. In this case, we can't.

Real Housewives of New York City star Kelly Bensimon was out on someone's front lawn in Amagansett this past week. Eating their grass and sputtering out nouns? No. She was selling her soul, (see also: her clothes) for charity. If you happened to make it to her big fur yard sale, you too can dress like so last year.

The proceeds of cleaning out her closet to make room for this coming year's unnecessarily absorbidant shopping spree went to benefit Island Harvest, a non-profit organization that helps feed hungry Long Islanders.

Wonderful. Insightful. Caring. Philanthropic. Kelly...how does this act of generosity fit, philosphically speaking, into your world-view?

Added Bensimon: "I can't even do a yard sale without my hair being done."

Sigh. Something tells me she can quote Plato's Republic and make it sound stupid.

Meet The Guy You Never Want To Be

So Vanity Fair has this F-Marry-Kill sort of Q & A going with "party planner to the stars" Colin Cowie. Who? Exactly. Which begs the follow-up question, can some bold, brave party planner out there step up and call themselves "party planners to the average people?" Because it sure seems like every party planner bills themselves as a planner to the stars. They can't all be planners to the stars can they? I mean, at that point, couldn't gas stations just say they're "unleaded suppliers to the stars?"

Anyhoo, the Q & A. Yikes. This guy is as metro-sexual as they come. Not only does he list designer sun-screen and an extra large towel as "essential" items to bring to the beach, he even calls out the brand of towel one should bring. Hermes.

Want highlights? He was actually asked what his "after-sun ritual was," and he actually had one. Curious? "Tons of any moisturizer, but I like Origins Ginger Souffle Whipped Body Cream."

He also has to wear Oliver Peoples sunglasses and wears a Brazilian cut bathing suit, so avoid Main Beach in East Hampton until he dies. Just being helpful.

Summer cocktail? "Cucumber Chill. A Vodka martini with muddled cucumber, lime, simple syrup, and elderflower."

Just cry mercy and I'll stop.

Favorite stationary? (yes, they truly asked him this, and, again, he truly had an answer.) "For the handwritten note, Ellen Weldon's over-scaled cards on thick paper stock with fabulous envelope liners."

Who inspires him? Nelson Mandela. Which makes sense. They have a lot in common. Cowie drives a black Mercedes CLK convertible, and Nelson Mandela...is black, so there.

Favorite Hamptons attire? "One loud element, like a fun printed trouser and a cotton t-shirt from Thom Sweeney."

OK, I hear you all climbing out onto your ledges, so I'll just throw in the kicker.

Song of the summer: "Too soon to tell. I'll know once I have been to St. Tropez, Capri, Sardinia, and Mykonos by mid-August.

Why don't you just ask Nelson Mandela, Colin? Yuck. Kids: dream of bigger things to become.

Decorate Your Ego In Pink

Make no mistake. If you wear this shirt, you're a toolbag. You're a pink toolbag. Guest Of A Guest wrote this article about how hard it is to get your hands on this new, Zev Norotsky-inspired T-shirt that obnoxiously declares "We (graphic of people running) The Hamptons." Translation: "We Run The Hamptons." Because they? Oh I get it, because they go to clubs in the Hamptons. And that's so cool because nobody else does that. Also, who's Zev Norotsky, you ask? See: Fameball.

From this T-shirt gag, we're surmising that he's a 30-something man-child apparently stuck in high school. You know, that time in life when making declarative statements that are testament to how cool you are was marginally acceptable and generally ignored. Only he's not in high-school (at least we don't think he is). Also, this ass-kicking-worthy shirt is available only in ass-kicking-worthy pink, for an ass-kicking-worthy $48.

Unintended laughter of the entire GofaG article? The whole angle of the blog post centered on their 3-part wisdom of how to cleverly score one of these "hard-to-get" T-shirts from Zev or anyone in his non-tourage. A commenter leveled them by posting up a website where it's easily for sale to anyone with a credit card and zero understanding of how much of an asshole they're going to look like.

P.S.? I've heard enough about this Axe Lounge in one month to make me want to punch whoever goes there in the face for a lifetime.