A little known fact I like to trot out at feminist rallies and family gatherings is that I use to work for the esteemed gentlemen’s periodical, Zoo Weekly magazine. Officially my title was Online Editor, but unofficially it was You Tube surfer and talker to the hottest chicks planet earth has ever produced.
Sadly my tenure at the Encyclopaedia Tit-tanica was brief, and a decision that to the male ego sounds like the frothy rantings of a mad man. In bloke-speak the phrase “I quit a job at Zoo Weekly” roughly translates to “I’m a frightful shirtlifter, pass the amyl and pump up the Right Said Fred”.
But after I’ve stopped trying to use my penis for a brain, not only is the fleshy mirage of life at a lad’s mag revealed, but so too are a few finer points of the deluded male mind.
You see, the thing about blokes is, we like looking at chicks. Like, a lot. At any given moment, at any given opportunity, our peepers are ferreting the landscape for body parts. Bums, boobs, legs, faces, it actually doesn’t matter. As long as they’re attached to women, preferably alive, preferably not related to us, we really don’t care.
As sensitive a new age guy I tell myself I am, oh isn’t the plight of the Tibetan people just ghastly, I’d be both a liar and a fool to pretend I’m not chock to the brain brim with naughty thoughts, and am just as sex obsessed as the next guy. And that guy is proper disgusting.
One would think the perfect remedy to such addictions would be a nine to five knee deep in the babes. For me it was my own personal Gitmo. Or if it pleases the court, Titmo.
Call me crazy, a maverick if you will, but I don’t see what’s so great about being forced to look at hot women all day, when none of them are even remotely interested in letting you touch their boobs.
Trotting up to Zoo every day was like a vagrant being forced to sit at Tetsuya’s for eight hours straight reading nothing but cookbooks. And while working at a lad’s mag is one thing, buying one is something else. Most blokes either love it, or are too entranced by the saucy smoke and mirrors to even notice they’re being had.
So if magazines are supposed to be aspirational, what exactly are blokes aspiring to? What do we think is going to happen by constantly sifting through these preposterous pleasure pamphlets?
Do we really think that by some weird science the busty Vodka Cruiser-loving Parra Eels-supporting Nickelback fan and personal assistant from Wetherill Park is going to spring from the centrefold shouting “take me to bed or lose me forever”.
Somehow, in the distant galaxy we call “our brains”, we kind of do.
It’s perhaps a little known fact that every time a man meets a member of the opposite number we run a scenario through our heads called: “What are the chances that this woman will actually let me have sex with her?”
Over the years we’ve developed a simple yet watertight system of checks and balances to help answer this question with pinpoint accuracy, of which I will reveal to you now:
Am I married?
Is she married?
Has she actually said the words “I do not want to have sex with you”?
If the answer to all three questions is no, the woman is then placed in the “Maybe” file and any even remotely flirtatious behaviour will result in us doing whatever you damn want, any damn time you want it.
All others are placed in the second file known as the “Mates” file, and will be asked to take a number. There are only two files.
It is the job of the magazine to trick the male reader into placing every single woman twixt their pages into the former. This is ingeniously done by omitting any details of steady relationships, and by having the woman look directly at the lens of the camera. Lens gazing is crucial. To the malleable male mind any woman looking into the camera is interpreted as eye contact and thus the “Maybe” file is activated.
It doesn’t even matter how famous, far away or out of our league. Until you can tell me for sure that Megan Fox will never need go to the RTA at Marrickville Metro, stop by the Boost Juice counter while I’m getting a large banana buzz and say, “Excuse me, do you know where Kmart is oh and can you please touch my boobs?” Until you can completely and scientifically rule that possibility out, SHE STAYS IN THE FILE. End of story.
But of course, to anyone without a knob for a brain, this is all a ridiculous pile of tosh. An illusion of such complex idiocy that it makes the seasoned World Of Warcraft level eleven dungeon master whose skin hasn’t seen the light of day in over ten years seem far more in touch with reality.
Forget the lad’s mags, mag lads. They’re a con.
Stop drinking the Kool-Aid. Unplug from the Matrix. Put down the pages, take a deep breath and drink in the amazing, beautiful woman sitting next to you. You’ll know her because she’ll be the one laughing at all your bad jokes, not bringing up your expanding girth, and hasn’t been manufactured by Adobe Photoshop.
Give her a kiss, tell her that you love her, and maybe, just maybe, she’ll let you touch her boobs.
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