The Cosmo Question

The Cosmo Question

[singlepic=17,320,240,,left]Lately there’s been a swath of reprehensible headlines in Cosmopolitan, brought to my attention both by friends and lines at grocery stores. Most recently, Cosmo advertised how it can help women stop from impulsively following their clearly inborn and animalistically unavoidable “urge to cheat.”

Now, I actually manage to enjoy Cosmo, Cosmo Girl, and magazines of that ilk–but only because I have learned how to read them properly. Read assuming the editors think real women are like that and you’ll get insulted. Women’s magazines make about as much sense as my male friend from high school who was convinced he’d grow breasts after he ate a Midol (completely unrelated note: this is the same friend who broke his foot on Zach’s trampoline, and, rather than us believing him, we forced him to put his shoes back on and bike home, which I think everyone still to this day agrees was hilarious).

So we’ve pretty much established that, for people of the brain functioning persuasion, taking these magazines seriously can’t be done.


Read them like the editors think their audience are incredible monsters, and suddenly the quality jumps tenfold. For example, one of my favorite “tips” from Cosmo (which I swear I am not making up) was to “Hold a man’s balls the way you would a baby bird.” Now, this can either mean one of two things. One, you are supposed to hold balls as if they are incredibly delicate and fragile–or two, that you are doing unspeakably horrible things to baby birds. See how much more entertaining the second version is? And it makes you a more interesting person as well; “My, those are lovely parakeets Jim. For the love of God, don’t let Carol near them.”  Or “Do you know when Nancy keeps feeding Ted’s balls with a dropper and encouraging them to leave the nest?”

So when magazines encourage me to curb the urge to cheat, eat, spend and splurge, or berate me for not reading about Hugh Jackman baring it all, I happily assume they are somehow referencing cannibalism, or the editors are backed into a corner by zombies and “splurge” is codename for “help us, we are backed into a corner by zombies and can now only communicate in code through our magazine which we continue to publish,” etc. etc.

Unfortunately, the thought of Hugh Jackman “baring it all” gives me the urge to cheat, and I’m back right where I started.