As has been reported in the media with depressing regularity, newspapers have been taking something of a tumble. In recent years, their readerships have steadily declined. Even as highfalutin and classy a paper as, say, The New York Post has to worry about its continued financial success.

It turns out that Al GoreÂ’s Internet has presented a major obstacle to the newspaper industry, since most people would rather watch a Youtube video of female flatulence than trouble themselves to keep abreast of current events. Further, thanks to the great success of our No Child Left Behind Gestapo, most American children are functionally illiterate, and therefore incapable of turning to, say, The Boston Globe in the first place.

Now we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” must admit that we generally resemble Luddites, and thus we enjoy curling up to a good newspaper each morning. Up until recently, our choice of news source was none other than the self-proclaimed Paper of Record, The New York Times.

But no longer. We have just experienced the proverbial straw that proverbially broke the proverbial camelÂ’s proverbial back. Although we used to take in the Gray Lady with aplomb, we cannot in good conscience do so in the future.

What, you may reasonably wonder, happened? What compelled the crack young staff to abandon “Pinch” Sulzburger’s delightful orgy of upper-middle class sanctimony? Did we finally peruse a Maureen Dowd column? Did Thomas Friedman’s intellectual preening compel us to implode?

No: Nothing as dramatic as that. Rather, we spied the following correction in the all-important style section of the November 1 number of the Times:

An article last Thursday about lingerie designed to be shown off in public misidentified the woman shown in the October issue of Harper’s Bazaar wearing satin briefs beneath a transparent frock. She is the actress Mary-Kate Olsen—not Ashley Olsen, her twin.

Awful, is it not? How can you trust the Gray Lady anymore, if its staff would make such an odious error? We most certainly cannot.

We mean, come on: How in good conscience can you misidentify a woman “wearing satin briefs beneath a transparent frock”? To our knowledge, our humble e-outfit has never made such a ghastly mistake, even though we don’t have anything close to the fact-checking resources of The New York Times.

Actually, we have a very strict woman-wearing-satin-briefs-beneath-a-transparent-frock-correct-identification policy. Those who fail to live up to its rigorous standards need not apply for work at “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly.”

Furthermore, if the Gray Lady canÂ’t get Mary-Kate and Ashley straight, what other egregious journalistic violations can we expect of them? Why, if you ask us, a paper that would make that boneheaded play is likely, say, to lie us into a war in Iraq. Or, say, to publish leaked national security secrets that render us all less safe.

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It is an unfortunate truism that nothing makes you appreciate the aural detritus of American popular music quite as much as the even more noxious cacophony of international pop tunes. Yes, even though you (justly) despise, say, the Backstreet Boys and Billy Joel, the horrors of other countries’ hit songs almost—almost!—force you to appreciate American pop stars.

And no wonder: Have you ever heard, for example, Indian popular music? Oh, what palaver! And to think that these are the people who have bestowed us with the delicious sounds of Indian classical music!

What about, say, Italian pop songs? Nothing quite says “downward spiral” as much as a culture that previously gave us Virgil and now presents us with that utter garbage.

As usual, however, the Middle East is home to the worst crap you can find. Or so we read in The Daily Telegraph, Britain’s staunchly pro-Tory newspaper. Under the peculiar title “Hamas Boy Band to Bring Harmony to Gaza,” journalist Tim Butcher writes the following:

Hamas militants have launched a new weapon in their struggle with Israel: a troupe of honey-voiced singers known as Protectors of the Homeland.
Wearing crisply pressed fatigues in urban camouflage blue, the six band members gather each day to practise in an old office within the Gaza City police headquarters.
The small room throbbed with energy as their dusty 12-track amplifier screeched with feedback before being tamed by an engineer.
To the accompaniment of a backing track from a laptop computer, the men then started polishing their routine of songs, almost all of which have strong Islamic and militaristic content and titles like Change and Reform. Such uplifting lyrics as "By the shrouds of the dead we are inspired" are typical.
"It is our job to inspire the foot soldiers," said Maj Hosam Abu Abdu, a 40-year-old former police officer who now fronts the band. "We want to urge the soldiers and officers to push on, to make the effort needed in the struggle to end the occupation [of Palestinian land by Israel]."
Formed in the summer as part of the arts department of Hamas's domestic security service, the Executive Force, the group has performed for police units around Gaza City.

Sounds pretty good, eh? As you can tell from the charming picture that accompanies the article, these mellifluous fellahs remind one very much of 98 Degrees, except for the fact that everyone in the band (Allah be praised) sports a beard. And those military fatigues are awfully fetching.

Further, unlike those saccharine American boy-bands, who warble tunes of the “I Want it That Way” ilk, the Protectors of the Homeland offer delightful four-part harmony and incitements to genocide. Take that, Justin Timberlake.

Until you’ve heard their “Kill the Jews Rap,” you haven’t heard anything. Move over, George Michael.

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