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by Michael Kelly
September 10, 2008

On the subject of Useless Style supposed super-couple Nick and Phyllis Newman squabbling within minutes of buying out co-founders Jack and Sharon Abbott because they, meaning the Newmans, can't agree on whether the rag should remain a tabloid or actually (GASP!) go back to being the fashion magazine it was intended to be, allow me to state that I'm unabashedly blissful that the couple is at odds. In the words of super freak Daniel Romalotti after being told to remove his shoes in the ashram, "That's what I'm talkin' about!"

Seriously ladies and germs, I'm loving it. Poor Nick though. He probably assumed, fool that he is, that since Wifey Dearest couldn't have been more obnoxious and self-righteous while railing against every sneaky decision made and slimy article written by that muck-raking skunk Jack, that she'd jump at the chance to take the publication in a classier direction.

Unfortunately, he couldn't have been more wrong. When Nick innocently suggested USM whip up a cover story/tribute to his now deceased step-mother to atone for the personal and professional flogging her reputation took as a result of Smilin' Jack's recent hatchet job on Sabrina Newman, Phyllis practically farted in her husband's face.

Ewww, a tribute article? Honey, it'll never sell. Articles about snooty French (or was Sabs Italian?) art experts/collectors/whatever married to elderly, mumbling industrialists only sell like hotcakes and require a third printing to meet the demand if the woman and her unborn baby end up dead because of the mob. Or if she's written as an opportunistic, gold-digging slut. Don't you know anything?

Predictably, Nick's fragile male ego wasn't just oozing for a bruising, it got one. A doozie. Phyllis, to her credit, quickly realized her man was miffed and nervously said "thanks' or "thank you" about five times after he handed her a drink but it didn't ease the tension. Mrs. Newman had to dig a deeper hole for herself by laying it on the line and admitting that Abbott had been right all along. Sleaze sells. Without it, USM is likely to go under.

To say that Nick took his wife's wake-up call poorly is putting it mildly. When he began pouting, a strident SyPhyllis, putting Gloria Steinem to shame, snorted in so many words, "Listen, big teeth. I'm not a head-bobbing, bleached blonde, string of pearls wearing Yes-woman like that airhead you divorced. I've got ideas, see, and I'm gonna share them with ya whether ya like it or not, see? If you think I'm going to go along to get along, you've got the wrong bitch, prick-ster."

Her tirade really was a thing of beauty. Nothing pleases me more than seeing Phyllis Newman flaunt her true colors with unapologetic bravado. I never bought her, "Oh Jack, how dare you publish that awful article. Where are your scruples? I'm absolutely appalled" line of bull. This woman, and I use the term loosely, is a junkyard dog. Now that "Ms. Magazine" is kicking ass and taking names, it's only a matter of time before Nick realizes he never should have married this lowdown, dirty dame. She's too much for the likes of him. She's not cut out for respectability and domestic tranquility. It's just about time to stick a fork in "Phick."

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