Wouldn't it be nice if you could buy magazines without embarrassment and fear of judgement? Why can't we march right up to our local newsstand and get whatever we want, without having to endure sneers and leers from the clerk? And no, I'm not talking about buying porno! I'm talking about magazines that are so bad they're good, the WB and Fox channels of the print world, toilet-tank specials. If anonymity were guaranteed, and my reputation could remain unsoiled, here's what you might find in my bathroom:
Cosmopolitan
My MS.-subscribing mother would croak, but from the gravity-defying cleavage on the covers, to the "Make His Love Last" columns, and the infamous Cosmo Quiz ("Are You Too Self-Centered?"), this anti-feminist, supermarket classic always manages to seduce me.
FHM
("For Him Magazine") Move over Maxim, here comes FHM, the latest craze in beer-swillin’, fratboy "reading" material. How to get her, how to get back at her, how to get over her (all illustrated with pictures of women that the losers who read this magazine can never hope to date). The Jug-o-Meter finds women readers ironically degrading themselves by volunteering to show their breasts for money ("I need money for a reef mapping course in Honduras"). It’s a car accident in print that you’ll have a hard time turning away from.
Teen People
Who cares about grown-up celebrities! Teen People brings you the minutia on the stars you REALLY care about: that werewolf guy from Buffy with the technicolor hair, that gothy chic from American Beauty (look out Christina Ricci!) and the guy from the Backstreet Boys with the massive eyebrows. So that you don't explode with guilty while reading, each issue includes at least one McNews story on such subjects as suicide and alcoholism.
T3
If James Bond’s Q subscribed to (or edited) a tech magazine, it’d be T3. This British import (who knew the Brits where on the bleeding edge of tech?) covers everything from the practical (latest PDAs and MP3 players) to the ridiculous (stereos that Bill Gates would find pricey and concept cars we’ll never actually see). Don’t let the scantily clad women on the covers fool you, inside, this is pure techo-porn.
Wallpaper*
Magazines with goofy typography in their names are awfully precious. And where else but in Wallpaper* -- the too-hip-for-the-room British decorating and lifestyle mag -- can I feast on the nightlife in Helsinki, which masseuses to ask for in Ibiza, and which £10,0000 chairs are SO last season?
Someday we'll live in a world where we’re free to gorge on as much mind candy as we want without fear of tribal shunning. For now, I'm going to read what I can of these magazines online and try to find more excuses to visit my doctor and dentist — I’ve got a lot of Highlights and Reader’s Digests to catch up on.
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