The New Yorker’s been awfully funny lately. The 10/03 Talk of the Town featured an item on the Manhattan launch party of Imperia vodka, essentially a compendium of quotations like this:

Imperia is only luxury vodka in Russia. Is now seventy per cent of premium vodka consumed in Russia. Is good for people.

Or this:

I knew my party must be with Statue of Liberty. Symbol of a better life. […] Guests will sit on big black velvet pillows decorated with gold crest, like Romanoffs. We follow menu of Tsar Alexander III. Best beluga caviar, served only with blinis and sour cream. […] Chilled Imperia vodka! We drink, we drink, we drink!

I can’t pretend this stuff isn’t funny, presented as it is with dry, minimal commentary by Lillian Ross. Cheeky deadpan humor is one of the greatest pleasures of reading The New Yorker. But turned on the unsuspecting — like the gleeful founder of Imperia vodka — it’s nasty and unfair. Most publications don’t print extended selections of broken English, because they feel a responsibility to respect their sources. Clearly, TNY feels no such responsibility.

I love my New Yorker, and I look forward to it every week. But next time some conservative accuses me of supporting elitist liberal media, I’m not going to be able to argue.

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