David Karp and SUPERCHIO, useless royalty of hipster Brooklyn culture, begin their second week in Japan. David continues to work hard on building a revenue model for tumblr:

Having drinks in the Teddy Roosevelt Lounge sponsored by Kirin on a steamboat at DisneySea in Japan.

And SUPERCHIO RACHELKITTY helps him understand how capitalism works by spending that new vc funding all over Harijuku:

“Kawaiiiiiiiii” — Five sales girls in unison

Hey VC folks, congrats on your intelligent funding choices. If I had known all you had to do was become a hipster icon and make some tshirts I woulda presented my GOMIBLOG business plan too!

Meaghan O’Connell, important female tech pioneer, is a vocal defender of lady people who have jobs, and resents it when people imply women only get work because of their looks. In fact, to prove her point, Poundcake never loses an opportunity to remind the entire planet that there is a nonstop stream of men informing her of her total and utter cuteness:

You have to hand it to him

Guy on the street: what’s up cutie?

Me: hi!

Guy: what’re you doin tonight, you wanna come home-less with me? I gotta nice spot under a streetlamp.

Jordan Reid, shillmaster of shillshacklesham.com, has two major problems – she has no content outside what Ragu she is eating or what shill event she attended; and apparently her apartment smells like dog piss.

To appease my obsession with having a beautiful-smelling home I usually buy room sprays or candles, because I’ve found that, alas, diffusers simply aren’t strong enough to expunge the scent of puppy, but I’m now sold on the concept: I put the Rosso Nobile diffuser that I was given at the event in our bedroom, and it completely infused our entire apartment within minutes. Not in an overpowering way, mind you – it’s like a prettily scented breeze just sailed through, washing away everything about dog ownership that used to bug me.

Blah blah, read past the shill and see the real story: Jordan seems to have no concept of how housecleaning works. She probably thinks a sweep and a swiffer and a quick surface wipe is all it takes, as long as you have 25 glade plug ins.

PROTIP: You know how you get rid of dog smells, Jordan? You clean your house and open some windows.  Wahhhh I have wood floors and they have accidents!!! All I can do is pour vinegar everywhere and wait for days! Bidge please. You need to mop with a real mop on your wood floors every other day, and wash your slipcovers and rugs. Suddenly, for some reason, you will not require enough soy candles to recreate the Wicker Man or diffusers or sprays which you seem to think are necessary for killing dog piss smells.

Sorry but if your house reeks to the point that you need non-stop essential oil fumigation going on? CLEANING: UR DOING IT WRONG!

Her Royal Highness Mary Rambin, Princess of Testiclepursia, hereby decrees that the lowly proletariat shalt not address her whilst she performs her twice daily ‘something for me’:

Please let me have my workout

I don’t want to be rude, but if I have my headphones in and a look of struggle on my face as I work on the elliptical, would you mind holding your comments until after my workout?

I only have an hour or so to myself…and I’d love to chat about hydration or my weekend after I’m done . If you have to leave, I’m sure we’ll see each other around. We have passed each other before.

So please, let me have this time to do something for myself.

Thanks.

This announcement is a supplement to the royal donklamation of HRH Julia Allison, stating she is treating herself to a cupcake today for a change.

To follow up my previous post regarding GHOULLLLLLD’s behavior at her book readings/signings I’d like to point out that GOMIBLOG has in fact had many reports of Embo freaking out a bit at hearing (or overhearing) negative comments about her opus.

This story, the only one we have permission to post so far, comes to us from a fairly prominent person who attended one of her book events – an event to which “just a scant dozen showed.” Unimpressive attendance does not seem to be an unusual thing for Emily’s book events.

Apparently our source read the book and as they sat alone waiting for people to show up, a bookstore employee asked the lone waiting guest what they thought of the book. What follows is their recounting of the events.

“[H]e asked if he should buy the book and the gist of what I said was this: “It’s definitely not worth $16. Keep your money and I’ll give you the Cliff Notes version:  whiny narcissist moves to NYC and works in cafes, drinks too much, s a lot, cheats on guys and is generally a douche bag. She blogs about it along the way. She gets a job at an online media gossip site and gets propelled to fame by her unabashed use of snark. She gets a book deal but ends up writing a book about nothing. The lack of plot could be excused if there was a concentration of the beauty of language, but, it fell flat on both accounts. Absolutely nothing happens in this crap book and the writing sucks. Save your cash.”

And that’s when it happens. The climax to my story, immediately followed by a crash I could have never expected.

Apparently the “green room” was that half-open door just to the left of me that I thought was a coat closet. And even more apparently that is where Emily Gould had been sitting the whole time. She ran out to me and screamed, “OH MY GOD! You do realize I’m RIGHT HERE and can hear EVERYTHING you are saying, right?”

My jaw dropped and the bookstore worker guy muttered, “Oh Crap!” and slinked out.

I looked at Emily and she looked back at me, both of us red with embarrassment and shock.

Horrified, I eeked out, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize you were here.”

And yet, I was smiling creepily as I said it, almost about to burst out in an inappropriate bout of nervous laughter.

“That’s ok. Um, thanks for telling me,” Emily replied walking slowly back to the “green room,” obviously really upset.

I sat back down in the first row again, still the only one who had showed up.”

Our source went on to explain they felt badly about the faux pas, but added, “I have to believe that the irony of the situation would not be lost on her. She made her living for several years hacking apart people by name online daily with the internet as a shield. Pretty ironic that karma came for her though a half-opened door in pretty much the same way.”

One source also informs us “She gathered lots of enemies while she was at Gawker and her narcissistic piece in New York Times did her no favors. Um, except, the big favor of garnering her a $100K book advance and deal.”

And the comments are open.

Emily Ghouuuuuld, still riding the fameboard on the knarly wave called “used to work at Gawker”, is caught between her mind saying “look over there” cuz feelings are like, dumb, but her heart will WEEP, just cry and cry, do you hear…Mr. T rocketships pineapple Fanta Big League Chew.

And…release. There. After a cleansing cry with Mom in a Hindu something, Embo has come back to her thought cemetery known as Emily Magazine to reveal…uh, this:

I have been feeling like I ought to be prevented from writing at all during this strange book period, especially online, because I’m bound to say something that will offend someone whose feelings are, basically, “you are so lucky to be a published author, how dare you complain about any aspect of attaining that exalted status.”   To this imaginary person I would say two things:  A.  I am grateful.  B.  I hope you write and publish a book someday.

You guys! She just can’t even post anymore! Someone will be offended…because Embo has a book. Yes Embo. The only reason people find you annoying and are offended by your continued coat-tail swinging is because you got a book published. Everyone knows that all negative reactions to your glorious human achievements are based on jealousy. Not because you come off as an ungrateful c**t for using your former Gawker fame as a springboard to this Crapty volume of snore, while simultaneously deriding anyone for doing now what you did then. Nope, we are jealous. Of your book. And if WE had a book WE would never complain.

Bitch..it’s not that. It’s that a) you are a WIGGED OUT hypersensitive-to-less-than-fawning-criticism beyatch to people at your book readings. You know. To all like, 7 people who show up! and b) pretty much ALL you’ve done is complain about how you got where you are. Wah I had to work at GAWKER, with a bunch of egotistical dickweeds. Wah nobody likes me because I’m a girl. Wah I hate that I can’t just do what I want and everyone will love me like they did when I was in a bathing suit lording over commenters. WAAAAHHHHH someone somewhere in the galaxy talked Crap about me must go comment!!!

Dude, go back to cleaning your navel or talking Crap about the Olsen Twins. Ugh. You were so much more fun when you were chubby and snarky.