Yesterday, my mailbox -- the real one, not the virtual one -- yielded the October and November issues of Maxim. Are you familiar with it? I'm only marginally familiar, but that doesn't preclude a total disgust. I assume this publication is aimed at young men who aren't Getting Any.
One cover is a nearly naked MEGAN FOX: Earth's Hottest Girl. The top banner refers to football college and an exciting article inside is entitled, "Is Your Girl Cheating?"
The other issue has an equally almost-nude photo of STACEY KEIBLER, who Gets Hollywood in a Headlock. She appears to be fondling her own, um, private parts, but that can't be true, since this is a PUBLIC magazine cover.
Both women ... er, girls? ... have the same haircut. It's long shaggy hair parted too far on the right, so it falls into their eyes. (See? if you're too far to the right, you go blind!) They have the same skin color, but one's a blonde and one's a brunette. And one has eye makeup like Kathy Drew, a classmate, wore in seventh grade. Kathy Drew could also chew her toenails, by the way. I always thought that was great. I still do, and I really think it's great if she can still do it.
In my narrow, pissed-off little mind, this Maxim is basically pornography and I am incensed.
-- CUT! --
You know what? I'm not incensed. Damn. I thought I was.
No. I'm just mildly offended, I've taken care of it, and I'm done with it. How's that for maturity? I cancelled the subscription, which yielded the information that Vista Print, of all things, is responsible for this. I get my cheap business cards and postcards from them. Well, they've seen the last of me. What a big fat marketing mistake it is to send free magazine subscriptions without first determining what the customer actually wants. I sure hope I wasn't a subscriber long enough to get onto lists that have me down as a, a Maxim-reading fellow.
Because of monetary donations I've made and magazines I have subscribed to, some lists out there think I'm a black woman. That's fine. It's not true, but it's not offensive. It doesn't bother me, so I won't take the time to disabuse them.
This Maxim thing did bother me enough to take action.
For a year, I got my Ms. magazine along with Billy Graham's mouthpiece ... um ... whatever it was. Ah! Decision. My poor father would have loved for me to be a Christian, and he thought this magazine would help. I didn't ever develop the ability to go against him head-on, so I bought him a gift subscription to Grapevine, the monthly "AA Meeting in Print." Tit for tat. He at least had the courage to tell me to my face that I needn't renew the subscription.
The most fun, though, came from a co-worker who is now on The Other Side. He'd send junkmail with the correct address but faux names. For instance, when Jeanne got a hip replacement, I started getting stuff for Jeanne Withthefakehip. One of my supervisors -- and they were legion -- used to squeal like a Pooh character, so I got mail addressed to Dave Whomakestiggernoises. Frank Whoyouyelledat was also a recipient of mail at my place, along with Gocart Craig, Carl Isacomposer, Mike Sitsbymike, Misquote Laurie, and Sam Dropsthepineapple.
I feared my female mail carrier would hate me, delivering all these clearly bogus pieces of junk, but she said it was a ball. She'd shout out the names in the sorting room and everyone enjoyed our dear, dead Carl's jokes.
DISCLAIMER: The mailbox shown is not my own. I painted it and sold it. Yay!