The mysterious world of women's magazines

What is the deal with the articles in women’s magazines? Are these articles for real? Seriously, inquiring male minds want to know.

See, the other day I found myself planted on the commode without any male reading material -- the newspaper, "Sports Illustrated", the Victoria’s Secret catalogue, the label on a can of air freshener, etc. So I succumbed to the pressure and picked up one of the women’s magazines my wife regularly receives.

What can I say, I was desperate.

Anyway, I think the magazine was called "Cosmoglamourbook", or something like that. What I do know with absolute certainty is, the pages smelled like they had just been used as a floor mop in the perfume department at Marshall Field’s.

Throwing caution (and my olfactory glands) to the wind, I started thumbing through the magazine. I came across articles entitled “Love, love, love -- super-glue your love” (sounds painful to me), “Sexier Sex” (or was it “Sexy Sex” or maybe “Sexier Sexy Sex” -- I’m not quite sure) and -- something every guy would encourage -- “53 Ways to be Even Sexier for Your Man.”

Like every red-blooded American male, I’m all for sexiness in women. But after a quick glance at some of the suggestions put forth by the female author of this article, I was left more dumbfounded than encouraged.

Such as, “When you say something saucy to him in bed, do it in a pitch that’s two or three notes lower than your usual talking voice.” Yeah, if you want him to think he’s suddenly found himself in bed with a truck driver named Al. Best case scenario, he thinks you’re coming down with a case of the flu and puts you in quarantine.

Then there was, “Give yourself a special stripper name like Delicious or Candy.” Or better yet, how about “Delicious Candy”. For a more realistic approach, try “STD Sally”. Of course, if a woman follows this suggestion it’s only a matter of time before she arrives home to find her significant other has installed a pole and disco ball in their bedroom.

Along the same lines was the suggestion to “adopt a thrilling theme song”. Just what every guy craves: Engaging in marital relations while the music from “Star Wars” blares in the background.

How about this suggestion: “Move in slow motion.” That’s right, act like you just dropped acid and woke up in a world where the atmosphere is maple syrup -- that’s a sure turn-on in my book. After all, what guy doesn’t find a woman with the moves of an octogenarian grandmother sexy?

Then there was the seemingly innocuous suggestion to “eat dessert while staring into his eyes.” Which, of course, should be immediately followed by the equally sexy “wipe the dessert off your lap after it falls from your fork.”

Or the suggestion to “wear smudgy black eyeliner for that smoldering temptress look.” Not to be confused with the “How dare you even think about sex after I’ve just been crying my eyes out” look.

Finally, the article suggested that women “coin their own sex move”, which -- combined with the stripper name and sexual theme song -- might prove very effective for launching that porn career you gals have secretly dreamed about.

I suspect it might also result in the following conversation:

Homer: “Honey, what are you doing down there?”

Marge: “I’m doing the ‘One-on-one, three-sixty, flying toe curler’ -- in the pike position, of course.”

Homer: “The what position?”

Marge: “Piiiiiiiiiiiiike!”

Homer: “Okay, well, you have fun. I’m gonna go to the bathroom. By the way, is there anything good in there to read?”

Copyright 2003 Marc L. Prey
All rights reserved.

An altered state of reality

I’m still not sure what to make of the invasion of reality shows on network television.

It’s hard to change the channel anymore without seeing a hunky lunatic trying to ingest some poor farm animal’s reproductive organ, or some marginal celebrity (say Anna Nicole Smith’s interpreter) going on an embarrassing date with a marginal celebrity wannabe, or some program designed to produce a matrimonial match between two impossibly attractive strangers but which actually results in a union more fleeting than Michael Jackson's lucid moments.

It’s only a matter of time before we see "How to Marry a Pretend Rich Guy after being Marooned on a Desert Island Populated by Backstabbing Marginal Celebrities and Forced to Eat Something Extremely Gross."

While watching the finale of "Joe Millionaire" the other night (yes, like a nearby trainwreck, I couldn’t help but watch), it occurred to me that these shows are appealing to the wrong demographic. I mean, how many young, rich hunks and young, gorgeous lasses really exist in the Heartland of America?

If the networks were truly after "reality", they would take some fat plumber with major buttcrack and a mouth like Ozzy Osburne, set him up in a Red Roof Inn just off the freeway, and have him choose a mate from among a group that included:

A worn-out hooker with thick ankles and varicose veins the size of pasta.

A three-time divorcee with a cigarette glued to her lips and a cackle like a drunken witch.

A Mexican "immigrant" with eight kids under the age of seven and a thin, dark mustache below her nose.

Dates would include an evening making fart-bubbles in the hotel hot tub, a trip to the All-U-Can-Eat dinner buffet at the nearby Sizzler, and bowling beneath a huge disco ball.

They could call it, "Who wants to Marry Mr. Drain-O?"

But seriously, the best reality show ever made was probably the first -- a little program from the 1960s entitled "Gilligan’s Island."

Seven people marooned on a desert isle, trying to survive against all odds (and the occasional visit by astronauts, musicians, mobsters and cannibals) until they are rescued (or renewed for another season).

You think I jest? It is a well-known fact that shortly after the show first aired, the U.S. government fielded more than 100,000 calls from people demanding that we send out a search party and rescue Gilligan and the other six castaways.

In fact, people continued to make these calls throughout the three-season run of the show. One can only imagine how they reacted when the show was suddenly canceled without airing a final "rescue" episode.

So maybe it can be argued that "Gilligan’s Island" contains a bit more reality than much of the current slate of reality programming.

In my mind the biggest flaw with this argument, and something that has troubled me since first watching reruns of the show as a youth, is the fact that the Professor, while a renowned genius with six advanced degrees, couldn’t figure out how to patch up a couple holes in the SS Minnow so the castaways could leave the island.

I mean, the guy made a pedal-powered sewing machine, a bamboo lie detector and a coconut shell battery recharger, but he couldn’t build something that would float?

I was thinking about this the other day when it hit me like a falling coconut: The Professor was a single man marooned on a tropical island with two gorgeous single women (Mary Ann and Ginger), and his only competition for their affections was the Skipper and Gilligan.

Of course he wouldn’t fix the boat…Of course he wouldn’t build a raft…The Professor didn’t want to be rescued…He liked it on the island!

Talk about a case of reality!

Heck, the situation on Gilligan’s Island was far more realistic than some underwear model holed up in a French chateau with a bevy of beautiful gold-diggers. There was more reality in Mr. and Mrs. Howell’s trunk full of fancy clothes than any single episode of "How to Marry a Millionaire."

So there you have it: "Gilligan’s Island " -- the first, and possibly best, reality show ever aired on network television.

Which leaves me with just one question: Did they ever rescue those poor castaways?

Copyright 2003 Marc L. Prey
All rights reserved.