Bigfoot is the anti-Paris, the anti-Britney, the anti-Lindsay. Even before cameras were invented, paparazzi were hounding him, and yet still we know next to nothing about his love life. He doesn’t wear a stitch of clothing, and yet he never accidentally exposes his vagina in front of Nikon-wielding peeping toms. Ten minutes on his iPhone could yield him a Pantene product line, a signature shoe from Nike, a prominent place at Al Gore’s reclaimed tiger-maple conference table, an Internet sex tape with the Olsen twins—and yet he resists. (READ IT ALL.)

Some freelance journalists yearn to pen a cover story for Rolling Stone or The New York Times Sunday Magazine. Other fantasize about winning a Pulitzer. My own longstanding dream? To be the #1 link on Warts Wire, the "comprehensive news feed for warts." And I am happy to announce that this dream has finally come true. I'm realistic enough to know that no one stays #1 at Warts Wire forever, but at least I'll always have the screenshot to prove it really happened.

Click on the links for four recent columns:

AMUSING OURSELVES TO DEPTH: Today newspapers are eager to entertain—in their Travel, Food, and Style sections, that is. But even as scope creep has made the average big-city tree killer less portable than a 10-year-old laptop, hard news invariably comes in a single flavor: Double Objectivity Sludge.

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VANSLAUGHTER: The NV200 isn’t available commercially yet, but the fact that even a prototype exists is the saddest van-related news since it turned out that Teri Hatcher doesn’t actually like to have sex in the old VW “passion wagon” she keeps parked in front of her LA mansion.

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FAN CLUBBED: Until last week, Ellen wore her fame like a pair of luxuriously low-key Ralph Lauren sneakers. She was rich, she was brilliant, she was a Clooney-caliber ladies’ lady, and yet she seemed so approachable, so grounded, as placidly upbeat as a hip youth minister. Then, when her new foster-pup Iggy failed to interface with her existing pets in sufficiently harmonious fashion, she forwarded the problem pooch to her hairdresser’s two daughters without alerting Mutts & Moms, the nonprofit rescue agency from whom she’d obtained the dog approximately 10 days earlier.

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RED MENACE: In the same way that Gap, Inc. targets different segments of the market with the Gap, Old Navy and Banana Republic, the social-justice movement is diversifying. This is good news for those who’d prefer to riot in the malls instead of the streets, but perhaps even better news for activists like Klein. After all, if you can’t capitalize on the spectacle of enlightened First-Worlders celebrating their global compassion by donning $28 T-shirts made by AIDS-stricken women toiling in Lesotho garment factories for $5 a day, then you’re just not working hard enough.

I got a Sundance catalog in the mail today. Here's how Mr. Redford kicks it off: "Holidays again. Forgive me while I dodge the rumble of the million footed throngs that have succumbed to the marketing ether for Christmas and its days. Holiday. Can we, without disappointing the children and others who long for the surprise of gift giving, just look to a different value to digest, wherever you are?"

Exactly what sort of values was Mr. Redford digesting while free-associating that? I bet they taste like bourbon with a chaser of organic purple kush.

Still, this intro puts to rest the notion that the ponderous pretty-coot has no sense of humor. Indeed, is there any wittier way to introduce 54 pages of $125 "Gratefulness" Crosses and $28 boxes of lollipops (aptly labeled "all day suckers") than to play the anti-Christmas-marketing card? Well done, Bob!