Ladies, we’re doomed. If you believe women’s magazines, we’re all a bunch of horribly unfit, unlikable, deathly ill losers who no one will ever love. And we can’t trust anyone. Not men, not our friends and certainly not ourselves.

Keeping oneself centered in the midst of life’s challenges is quite a feat, though usually I stay fairly balanced. But now I find myself asking, “why don’t I look like an oiled-up Eva Mendes in my Calvin Klein skivvies? Will the sunflower seeds I eat be linked to a healthier heart or leprosy? And who really cares if stress causes sterility if your vagina’s gonna fall out anyway?”

Ah, but men’s magazines. What beacons of hope! What tidings they bring of reassurance and good cheer!

There’s Maxim, an orgiastic handbook of gadgets, cars, sports and half-naked starlets. Maxim is like a guy’s frat brother urging him to have another beer (it won’t kill you), and offering tips on how to sneak out of the house or get his girl to shave everything “down there.”

Then there’s Esquire. I enjoy this one because their well-written articles treat readers as if they might have brains. Tailored suits, expensive watches, fancy cars, high-end scotch and disrobing A-list actresses – Esquire’s world of men rocks. No matter how chubby, boring or unsuccessful a guy is, reading it will make him believe he’s awesome. They present cover boys like Matt Damon and Bill Clinton as buddies, and offer comforting words for men’s failings. Romantic ineptitude, professional failure, erectile dysfunction – no worries, Esquire’s got your back.

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Last-modified: 2021-02-24 (水) 01:30:59 (242d)