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.
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