Picture Books
Last night I flew to Brussels, and the person in the seat next to me was an attractive young woman. I didn't exchange any actual words with her, however, on account of the fact that she was a dumbass and I would have got better conversation from my pillow. My first clue was when she took her seat and promptly unloaded four thick women's magazines into the seatback pocket, along with two trashy novels. Now I'm not talking about flimsy magazines here - these were about 3/8-1/2" thick, the sort of thing you could use to club a baby seal to death, if the urge took you.
The inflight movies were shit - 27 Dresses and Evan Almighty. Fuck me - a plodding, predictable happy-ever-after chick flick and a mind-buggeringly dull and predictable so-called comedy. So I started to surreptitiously look over at the magazines as Miss Dumbfuck paged through them. They were 100% A-Grade glossy crap, the kind of trash that makes any reasonable person begin to despair of our species. The woman had an engagement ring on and is presumably planning to breed at some point - I wanted to scoop out her ovaries with my plastic spoon as a service to mankind.
You see this particular type of crap everywhere and it's getting more and more prevalent: pictures and stories and interviews focused on an endless parade of "famous" people. Guess what? There were Brad and Angelina, two people I'd be happy never to hear about for the rest of my fucking life, gazing up soft-focusedly as the article gushed over their new $70 million chateau. There was Kim Cattrall giving her "personal" opinions about her favorite shoes, eyeliner and other crap (not that she was getting paid to promote it, of course). There were glittering photos of celebs with their families, seemingly indicating that the mere fact that they are still breathing is reason enough to pose them in silks and tiaras in front of a grand piano, so that slow-witted dumbfucks like the blonde tart next to me could turn page after page, just looking at them.
What's the point? That's what I'd like to know. There's precious little actual text, other than the descriptions of the merchandise they are wearing; most of the content is just photos. The only possible reason I could see to purchase a publication which was made up of glossy photos would be if the people in it were women, were naked, and you intended to indulge in an act of self-pleasure over it. Are these things the female equivalent of porn? Was she getting all juiced up reading about Angelina's new dress, Beyonce's new jewelry or Katie's new hairstyle? Or is this more like those books we buy for little kids, mostly made up of pictures because they haven't yet developed the skills of reading or comprehension, and the messages need to be simple?
I think I can see the messages here clear enough: Buy This. Want This. Worship This. Prostrate yourself at the altar of fame and hang on the words of the glossy idols we have created. Yeah right. Like I'm going to give a flying fuck what J-Lo says about anything.
It's not just the Hollywood types though. We get those "society" pages in our local rag sometimes, with pictures of people in tuxedos and evening dresses, holding cocktail glasses at some gala event. Each picture has a caption with the people's names, you know the sort of thing. Why? Is it really so important to us that Mr and Mrs Humphrey Cuntbubble were standing next to Lieutenant-Governor Arsegrape and his second wife, Gladys on Thursday night?
I increasingly believe that the segment of society which buys and "reads" glossy celeb magazines has self-selected into the category of the populace which should not be allowed to vote, let alone reproduce. All higher-level brain function must surely have ceased in order for such things to have become important, right? In fact about the only things worse are Bride and Wedding magazines, a female maturbatory fantasy of self-indulgent excess and massive consumption, layered with meaningless details and staggering cost, where all must be sacrificed to the monstrous fraud of the "one special day".
Our society may well be going to hell in a handbasket, but at least we'll be able to look at lots of pictures of weddings on the way...
Copyright © 2008 Edward Bison
The inflight movies were shit - 27 Dresses and Evan Almighty. Fuck me - a plodding, predictable happy-ever-after chick flick and a mind-buggeringly dull and predictable so-called comedy. So I started to surreptitiously look over at the magazines as Miss Dumbfuck paged through them. They were 100% A-Grade glossy crap, the kind of trash that makes any reasonable person begin to despair of our species. The woman had an engagement ring on and is presumably planning to breed at some point - I wanted to scoop out her ovaries with my plastic spoon as a service to mankind.
You see this particular type of crap everywhere and it's getting more and more prevalent: pictures and stories and interviews focused on an endless parade of "famous" people. Guess what? There were Brad and Angelina, two people I'd be happy never to hear about for the rest of my fucking life, gazing up soft-focusedly as the article gushed over their new $70 million chateau. There was Kim Cattrall giving her "personal" opinions about her favorite shoes, eyeliner and other crap (not that she was getting paid to promote it, of course). There were glittering photos of celebs with their families, seemingly indicating that the mere fact that they are still breathing is reason enough to pose them in silks and tiaras in front of a grand piano, so that slow-witted dumbfucks like the blonde tart next to me could turn page after page, just looking at them.
What's the point? That's what I'd like to know. There's precious little actual text, other than the descriptions of the merchandise they are wearing; most of the content is just photos. The only possible reason I could see to purchase a publication which was made up of glossy photos would be if the people in it were women, were naked, and you intended to indulge in an act of self-pleasure over it. Are these things the female equivalent of porn? Was she getting all juiced up reading about Angelina's new dress, Beyonce's new jewelry or Katie's new hairstyle? Or is this more like those books we buy for little kids, mostly made up of pictures because they haven't yet developed the skills of reading or comprehension, and the messages need to be simple?
I think I can see the messages here clear enough: Buy This. Want This. Worship This. Prostrate yourself at the altar of fame and hang on the words of the glossy idols we have created. Yeah right. Like I'm going to give a flying fuck what J-Lo says about anything.
It's not just the Hollywood types though. We get those "society" pages in our local rag sometimes, with pictures of people in tuxedos and evening dresses, holding cocktail glasses at some gala event. Each picture has a caption with the people's names, you know the sort of thing. Why? Is it really so important to us that Mr and Mrs Humphrey Cuntbubble were standing next to Lieutenant-Governor Arsegrape and his second wife, Gladys on Thursday night?
I increasingly believe that the segment of society which buys and "reads" glossy celeb magazines has self-selected into the category of the populace which should not be allowed to vote, let alone reproduce. All higher-level brain function must surely have ceased in order for such things to have become important, right? In fact about the only things worse are Bride and Wedding magazines, a female maturbatory fantasy of self-indulgent excess and massive consumption, layered with meaningless details and staggering cost, where all must be sacrificed to the monstrous fraud of the "one special day".
Our society may well be going to hell in a handbasket, but at least we'll be able to look at lots of pictures of weddings on the way...
Copyright © 2008 Edward Bison
posted by Mr Bison at
8:44 AM
6 Comments:
Guilty as charged.
I always buy crap magazines for airplane trips. Not sure why-- it's a secret travel indulgence. I would never read that shit while lounging at the pool or before going to bed-- what if someone I know saw me?
Now I'll be extra careful on international flights. I might need my ovaries, Bison. ;)
Those plastic spoons aren't all that strong. In reality I'd be lucky to get an appendix out with one... :-)
Wimmin's magazines are all pure drivel. Even the ones that have writing in them are all about the same things, dieting, excercise, food for people who aren't on diets or exercising, fashion, decorating and kids. Not necessarily in that order.
It beats me how they manage to churn out the same crap every month, and wimmin still buy them.
Good thing I only buy Playboy and Penthouse, it's so interesting, full of different stuff everyweek, boobs and pussies of different women.
Back to the story, why did you not tell me you were in Brussels? We should have met for a coffee or something..
Rima,
Actually I only flew into Brussels - went on to Gent for a few days. Now back in the airport again. Maybe next time - feel free to keep any back-issues of those magazines for me! ;-)
Boobs and pussies are very interesting. There are so many different kinds and shapes...Playboy has too many articles but Penthouse will do.
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