Those are prescription drugs in wife Cindy's hands, and that's the Constitution burning in the fireplace.
We here at Vanity Fair maintain a kind of affectionate rivalry with our downstairs neighbors at The New Yorker. We play softball every year, compete for some of the same stories, and share an elevator bank. (You can tell the ones who are headed to the 20th floor by their Brooklyn pallor and dog-eared paperbacks.)
And heaven knows we've published our share of scandalous images, on the cover and otherwise. So we've been watching the kerfuffle over last week's New Yorker cover with a mixture of empathy and better-you-than-us relief.
We had our own presidential campaign cover in the works, which explored a different facet of the Politics of Fear, but we shelved it when The New Yorker's became the "It Girl" of the blogosphere. Now, however, in a selfless act of solidarity with our downstairs neighbors here at the Condé Nast building, we'd like to share it with you. Confidentially, of course.
Note: Wizbang Blue is now closed and our authors have moved on. Paul Hooson can now be found at Wizbang Pop!. Please come see him there!