S U C K

"a fish, a barrel, and a smoking gun"
for 17 July 1997. Updated every WEEKDAY.
 
 
 
 
 

Hit & Run XCII

 

[I am sooooooo pretty.  I am a model for Calvin Klein.  Little do I know that Calvin Klein is making sooooo much more money off of my face than I ever will. ....  You know, I really like those Calvin Krime t-shirts.]

Since the TV industry's first

attempt at a rating systems was

too user-friendly, modeled as it

was on the well-known movie

ratings system, it's been

refashioned at the request of

boycott-threatening familycrats.

Now V means "violence," S means

"sexual content," L means

"vulgar language," D means

"suggestive dialog," and FV

means "fantasy violence." (So V

only applies to the evening news

and talkshow finger-jabbing?)

And, frankly, all the different

categories make us wonder: If

parents in search of guidance

are too dumb to figure out that

a show, say, about six single

New Yorkers will undoubtedly

feature lots of sexual innuendo,

will they really be able to

remember all those one-letter

codes? We say spell out the

warning labels in their entirety

as they flash across the screen.

But maybe that would make

watching TV a little too much

like reading, which, of course,

is truly the most dangerous

childhood pursuit, as it offers

kids the greatest chance to

learn to think for themselves.

 

[There was this show on T.V. called When Animals Attack, and it was hillarious, if only for one part.  A guy had coated himself in deer musk and was taunting a deer while his wife was video taping it, and the deer attacked him.  She was saying on the voice-over 'I wqas watching my husband being killed.' The whole time the camera didn't wobble a bit.  Weird. ]

Last week's New York cover story,

"Are American Jews

Disappearing?" was yet another

millenialist thumb-sucker about

religion in our troubled age.

We're hard-pressed to figure out

why this story popped up again

at this point, but maybe it's

just that we're somewhere

between Passover and Yom Kippur,

with no major High Holidays to

keep things moving along in the

Scared Sectarian department.

There are certainly important

issues surrounding the current

state of all religions in the

era of late, really late,

read-these-two-tablets-

and-call-me-in-the-morning-

capitalism - one writer has even

remarked upon the way affluence

and American culture are

producing a "new McIsrael" - but

having Craig Horowitz interview

Elliot Abrams, or a few

investment bankers from Bear

Stearns talk about how they're

rediscovering the Torah, doesn't

seem like much on which to hang

a religious revival. For those

of you searching for meaning in

life, may we suggest the Suck

Probe?

 

[I have been making the images  for suck off and on for over a year now.  And you know...it can be kind of fun.]

In a clear bid to compete with

the likes of Maxim and other "post-sensitive-

guy" magazines, Esquire recently

sent out a mailing which should

have even Esky himself hiding

out from a potential

ass-whuping by the Vargas Girls.

The tag line? "It covers man at

his best. And uncovers women,

too." The color photo foldout

features Cindy Crawford's nude

spread from the August 1995

"Women We Love" issue, along

with random cheescake shots

culled from 1993 on, including a

photo that accompanied a review

of Anne Hollander's Sex and

Suits and Josie Bissett in pink

gingham lingerie and a braided

fall. It was a stunning reminder

of how low the magazine has sunk

in recent years in the attempt

to perk up ad sales, and the

accompanying pitch letter was a sad

comment on the blunderbuss

strategy editors are now

employing in an attempt to

rebuild its readership. "You'll

know how and where," the first

page reads, "... to look at naked

women. How to keep your hair

forever. How to bear a bull

market." Such scattershot

salesmanship goes on for four

whole pages, culminating in the

most random list of past

contributors imaginable, from

Jimmy "Brain Tumor" Breslin to

George "Brain Damaged" Will,

from Saul "Nobel Prize Winner"

Bellow to Jeannette "Reality

Check" Walls. Plus, a shot at

winning a 23-inch color TV!

Somebody pinch us....

 

[I love Might magazine.  I will forever hold on to my back issues and reread them all my life.  They arte the funniest magazine out there, and it's obvious people liked them, too.  Silly advertising dollars.  Anyway, if you can you should try to hunt down back issues, they are well worth the effort.  Oh, by the way, I may not be working for Suck anymore.]

So far, reports of Might's death

have been exaggerations, which

isn't to say that the magazine

isn't dead, but that - as Adam

Rich might agree - the media is

quick to mythologize one of

their own. And Might was very

much the kind of magazine whose

most faithful audience members

could usually find an excuse to

expense their subscriptions.

Lauded in the press from its

inception, and a persistent

focal point for

"those-wacky-kids"-style

coverage regarding their

innovative embrace of

shamelessness, Might was a media

darling that everyone had a

crush on, but, sadly, it couldn't

get a date for the prom. Broken

down into component parts,

however, the newly swinging

bachelors from across South Park

have had no trouble lining up

engagements: Soon New York will

be a few wiseacres richer (like

it will make a difference), and

San Francisco's

earnestness-to-irony ratio will

increase precipitously. Indeed,

the editorial cherry-picking

(which we know a little about

ourselves) of the Might masthead

has been so quick, so total, and

so individually lucrative that

we're wondering why they didn't

get on with it before. Acting as

an organ donor for the

creatively ill magazine industry

(whose growth these days seems

more akin to a metastasizing

tumor than actual innovation or

improvement) seems like a fate

slightly better than death, and

perhaps the piecemeal sale of

some of Might's more portable

features - excluding, obviously,

the tragically misunderstood

"Gaywatch" - would have allowed

us to enjoy a few more tart

servings of our favorite

magazine. Which gives us an idea

... FOR SALE: Canada jokes. A

good gimmick, slightly used ....

 
 
 
courtesy of the Sucksters
 
 
 

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