I’ve just been offended by an advertisement. I’m not talking about something on TV or the ubiquitous pop-ups that infest the Interwebs like zits on a juicer in pre-judging. (Some jokes I tell just for me, apparently. Thank you, Whit Haydn.)
No, this insult was personal. Today’s mail contained a renewal notice for Cosmopolitan magazine. Renewal, mind you. I would subscribe to the Weekly World News before I’d even deign to look at the cover of Cosmo in the check-out, or order a cosmo in a bar for that matter.
Feh! Feh and phooey.
So they think they can fool me into “renewing” a magazine I would never touch while conscious. How dumb do they think I am? Oh, right. By definition, they think I’m dumb enough to read Cosmo. That says it all.
And if you do read it, and would like to defend it, please feel free. I’d be interested to hear what you have to say. The last time I opened that magazine was in the late 70s, and Marabel Morgan (don’t ask how I remembered that name, maybe it’s some kind of feminist PTSD) was yammering that a woman should greet her husband wearing nothing but Saran Wrap™ to get his mojo rising after a hard day at work.
I just read this to Robert who said, “But the quizzes are fun!” Sigh. I do NOT want to know.
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