Well, another mystery solved.
A few months ago, not long after my spiffy new porch was completed, I found that the postman had left me a gigantic, unwieldy, glossy, stinky magazine full of glamor and celebrities. ??
Yes: stinky: all these magazines seem to come larded with vile little cards that drop out when you lift the thing, reeking of some suffocating perfume that sells for $50 the half ounce. My head can start to pound just thinking about the stench of them; I have narrowly avoided violent altercations with women applying them lavishly in locker rooms. I don’t want them delivered to my door.
I figured it was some sort of free sample that I could ignore away but it came again. And again.
What the fecking feck. The closest I have come in years to the pursuit of glamor is a fetish for matching my five-dollar elastic-strap children’s watches to my gym clothes.
I finally ferreted out a 1-800 number and worked my way through a series of endless robots to a young slip of a thing who said she would cancel the subscription, and that it had been a complimentary gift with something I bought from an online retailer. I remember the purchase as involving a wastebasket and a small table for the new porch. Why does that get me expensive glamor crap? Why not Car And Driver? Muscle And Fitness? Guns And Ammo?
The things trees die for. Jeebus.