That's the title of Anthony Lane's collection of movie reviews, but it also applies to the copy editors at his day-job employer. The New Yorker is generally edited to an immaculate gloss, but nobody's, well, you know.
See the page below from a recent issue. You've got your pleasant David Denby film criticism, your fine caricature work by Chicagoan Tom Bachtell, your bourgeois small-space ads, and your Irvin-font tagline. Pretty much business as usual, except for a small problem with the illustration caption.