cheesy journalism

I’m always on the lookout for writing gigs. Saw one a while back for a Houston magazine called Envy. I had a feeling, just from the name, that the magazine and I probably had different, um, deals. My suspicions were proved completely spot-on yesterday when I stumbled across a copy of the magazine at a trendy lunch spot in the Montrose (of course). I had to check the masthead to make sure I didn’t know anyone at the rag, and thank god I don’t because it’s a piece of shit.

Okay, that’s not really fair. The production value is high – it’s an 80-page glossy. It also seems like something that could be printed performance art/comedy – most of the women in both the ads and the stories are enhanced. They have big sausage puffed lips and triple d cups. They have fried, bleached hair. They have lined faces from too much tanning and the strain of constantly puking up dinner and the bag of peanut butter cups they snuck into the closet before dinner. The guys are just as gross, with their stupid hats on crooked and fake bling around their necks like they’re all porn stars when you know they are getting back in their belching SUVs and driving home to a duplex that has bad plumbing and a bitchy cat woman living in the other half. Cool. Party.

I can’t wait for the white trash porn look to move out of fashion. I’m seeing more skin just walking down the street than I do in the shower. Maybe I shouldn’t use such sudsy soap.

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