One of the more pathetic stunts in some time was the NYT’s sending “Hungry (for Processed Crap) Girl” to some stadium to assess the edible offerings. All she did was stroll through and check the calorie counts helpfully posted on menus, something I guess the average baseball fan would be incapable of managing. The fresh fruit on offer got short shrift because of course someone so devoted to gorging on fake this and low-fat that didn’t remember the old Yogi Berraism: “You could look it up.” Otherwise she had no critical capability or cred to bring to the field-side table. For a million reasons it was ridiculous but not least because: What fat fool with a beer in one hand and a hot dog in the other gives a pitched fuck what a neurotic idiot has to say? Next maybe those editors can have the saddest woman in Styles, Ruth Madoff, rate Upper East Side banks.