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And now, Scary-Crayon presents...
Let's begin with a question, shall we?. Have you ever read a Jhonen Vasquez comic book before? You know, Jhonen Vasquez -- the guy who created Invader Zim, Johnny the Homicidal Maniac, etc., etc. A lotta wacky shit, yessir. Well I just read a few (I Feel Sick is my favorite, and it's in color!), and there's something about them that just makes you wanna torture yourself, y'know? Like, "OH, I HAVE NOT SUFFERED EXCRUCIATING AGONY IN A WHILE SO LET ME SUBJECT MYSELF TO UNBEARABLE TORMENTS, AND WHILE I'M AT IT LET ME CHRONICLE MY PAIN SO THAT PEOPLE CAN READ ABOUT IT ON THE INTERNET!" I think that'll do for an introduction to this article; at least it answers the "Why, Wes, why?!?!?" questions.
Yep, it's that time again. This review, however, is going to go a little bit differently. For one, despite my masochistic intentions, there's no way in bleeding hemorrhoidal tissue that I'm delving into the actual contents of the December 2003 issue of "O, The Oprah Magazine". I'm also not staring at her sadistic grinning mug while cropping images from the cover and magazine, so the above is ALL YOU GET (thank me later). After a little while, you'll read, scroll down, and after that you won't see Oprah again until you go to sleep and she shows up with a grossly overweight Gwyneth Paltrow and a rusty bladed glove in your worst nightmares. Sleep tight, kiddies. What I mean to say is this: for this installment I'm just reviewing the cover -- and trust me, there's enough stupidity there to fill several articles' worth of text. Hopefully I'll resist the masochistic urge to take it that far, though. At the moment, I'm not very optimistic. Let's get to it. It'll be quick, God-willing.
Of course, you've already noticed that Oprah is on the cover, flashing her most hideous of Joker grins. Okay, I lied, and believe me I'm sorrier about it than you can ever know. Lulled myself into a false sense of security there, and there's nothing worse than being betrayed by yourself. Hopefully you will never know. SO. Zoom function, do your stuff.
Seriously, what's up with this? It's almost like the malevolent sneer of a blood-hungry jackal, or one of those hyenas that ate Scar at the end of The Lion King. Why the fuck would they eat Scar, anyway? He wasn't the most appetizing looking lion, if you get my drift. Ugh, guess they've got Oprah's appetite. Anyway, if you read the cover, you know that Oprah's drinking margaritas with Julia Roberts -- why not a shot of the two of them together, toasting their horrible deaths and inevitable descents into the flamey land of HADES, or, and this is the preferred option, a picture of JUST JULIA ROBERTS? I mean jeez, Oprah, you've been on ten billion covers by now -- let someone else have a turn. Not that Julia Roberts and her strange fine-tipped marker lips haven't been on enough covers as it is. Hey, why are we even talking about Julia Roberts? She hasn't been in a good movie since Hook. Next.
Be Excellent! How to lift your life to the next level. It's so-o-o-o much easier than you think No shit! I've got it for you in two-o-o-o easy steps, people. And I'm not charging you $3.95, either. Whip out that pen and paper; take notes. STEP 1:
Stop buying this fucking magazine.
Guaranteed to "lift your life to the next level" -- your feet won't even be touching the ground if you do it correctly. Next!
WOMB FOR RENT Hey, seriously? I wonder if those monthly payments are comparable to those of an apartment in the NYC area. I've been thinking of moving, you know. I imagine the accomodations wouldn't be very spacious, and I probably wouldn't be able to fit my books in there, but you never know, eh? Porn stars would probably be prime locations, yes? No, wait, I'm thinking of something else. Um, yeah. I want my brain back. :(
Wow, holy shit! Now Oprah does news? That's amazing. And such breaking news it is! You don't have to gain 5-10 pounds this winter, folks! Spectacular! But something doesn't quite seem right -- what could be the problem? Oh, right. I've never gained 5-10 pounds over the winter. And if you have, some advice: put the fucking turkey drumstick down. Seriously, I don't get this. People are buying clothing two sizes too large in anticipation of getting fatter over the holidays, and then they complain about it. What gives? It's not like there's a holiday rule that says, "You must pig the fuck out, because a holiday's not a holiday unless your multiple chins quiver when you laugh mirthfully!" My god. Solution? If you insisted on buying this magazine, eat it instead. I don't think paper has very many calories, and it's probably really low in fat. I'm also betting it's high in fiber. Enjoy!
Mom overboard! DR. PHIL to the rescue So Phil is a superhero now, eh? Truly truly outrageous. Why isn't HE on the cover? Oh, right, because Dr. Phil in spandex would be even worse than Oprah in Joker-face. But now it's time for me to violate my promise yet again, partially because I think that the page needs another image, and partially because I don't want to be the only person having horrible horrible nightmares about this. Sharing is caring.
Man, it's enough to make you want to jump into shark-infested waters just so Phil can save you, eh? Actually, that drawing turned out kind of cool, despite my obvious attempts to make fun of Phil with the hairy armpits and legs and the exposed stomach. He really does look pretty heroic. Must be the crotch. I guess where there's a Phil, there's a way.
You know, I had a friend once who took similar advice. I'm sure you've heard of him; went by the name'a Lucifer. The second that halo left his head, though, the poor fella went batshit crazy and waged war on God, and the next thing we knew he was calling himself SATAN (yes, boldfaced and italicized) and raping little boys up the ass in the form of a goat. Oh, there was something about making haggard old ladies use their own feces as liniment, also. Yeah, I wonder what happened to ol' Scratch (as they called him in the South). Well, there's no moral to that anecdote, except that if you listen to Oprah you could end up banished from the sight of God and doomed to spend the rest of your days chained to a lake of fire in the irritable bowels of the universe. But OPRAH (yes, boldfaced and italicized) gave her permission for you to hang up that halo and ditch the harp, so maybe it's okay with G-dog after all. Yeah, right. Told you she wanted your soul.
I'm quitting here -- in truth, the last tatters of my sanity went with the creation of Super Phil, and he's flown off to retrieve them for me. If you clap your hands, children everywhere, perhaps he will be successful.
One can only hope.
Just click the image above! Simple, no? ;)
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Holy mother of God, Wes, why?!?!?!?
