Dear Maxim Magazine:
When I went out to my mailbox today, it smelled particularly sexy, and sure enough there you were. I suspect today’s fragrance was emanating from page 45, the thick page featuring Josh Hartnett and Emporio Armani Diamonds for Men. Believe me, in a pinch, I will peel open the page and wipe your sticky sample on my pulse points. However, I must confess, I don’t know who Josh Hartnett is. Is he an actor? Musician? A Pirate? I base that last guess on his wardrobe and the location and concentration of his facial hair.
For the last year, I’ve passively received your magazine. I say “passively” because, for the life of me, I don’t remember subscribing. Oh, I’ll leaf through, mainly out of respect. I mean, you took the trouble to send it to me and it would be rude not to at least scan it. I find your information regarding pop culture to be very shiny and bright. And there’s no doubt that your attempts to accommodate youthful consumerism are perfectly honed, especially the ad for a trust potion called “Liquid Trust.” Finally, the Sensitive Man’s alternative to Roofies!
But here’s the rub: I’m almost 40 years old. That makes me old enough to be the father of many of your airbrushed cover girls. Despite their “come hither” looks behind smoky eye shadow and their heaving bosoms exposed by falling shoulder straps, the fact that I could be footing the bill for their college tuition makes any lustful thoughts that you’ve intended very creepy and disconcerting; especially when it’s accompanied by an article entitled: “How to Vote Off Her Panties!” Then again, whatever gets the kids interested in their civic duty and the democratic process is aces in my book.
I will admit, many years ago, I was a subscriber to Maxim Magazine. That was back when I lived in a studio apartment, worked at a home improvement store and was eager for any advice as to getting “Her” panties off, voting or otherwise. As I mentioned, I’m now pushing 40, married and am very knowledgeable when it comes to panties as I regularly launder those of my wife in our large capacity, Sears washing machine.
I suspect the woman who delivers my mail is roughly my age, too. I often wonder what she thinks when she tucks my property tax bill into the Maxim Magazine so it falls out like one of your subscription cards when I open it. Does she think: “Now here’s a man who proudly embraces his Peter Pan complex. Maybe it’s just the Liquid Trust talking, but I find that refreshing.” Or is she going to report me?
Maxim Magazine, it is with a heavy heart, due in no small part to the arterial sclerosis common to men of my advancing years that I would like to terminate my non-subscription to your publication. And believe me when I say: It’s not you, it’s me. I think it’s great that you’re introducing kids to the fashions that have survived in my closet lo these twenty years only to reappear, irony-free, in your style section, and if you need an authentic Members Only jacket, mesh tie and Topsiders, don’t hesitate to ask. My closet is like the Smithsonian.
So long, and thanks for all the breasts,