Does anyone else find Adbusters pretentious?

I mean I like it, I think it's a good publication... The cover art is generally provocative, or at the very least interesting. Like this month's - I can't fucking believe how much I love this month's cover. A beautiful young woman: golden tresses, crimson lips, smokey eyes, wearing just the most *divine* little red dress, with killer fuckin gams, lemme tell ya, tipped off at the end with smart black stiletto pumps... And bitch is on the receiving end of a finely tuned restraint, being administered by an exceptionally angry officer of the law. We're talkin face-down, hands behind the back, legs spread, the whole shuhbang. And like, the dude is really angry. So's the other officer dude, in the background. She's been pulled out of what I can only assume is some kind of Sports Utility Vehicle, and laying next to her on the asphalt is a Grande Starbucks cup, in a splattered pool of it's milky sugarfreelowfat ex-contents.

"A model getting her just desserts," said the gentleman who bought the magazine today, after I commented on how much I enjoyed the imagery.

I'm definitely going to put it up somewhere. But cool cover art aside, when one takes the time to actually commit (and it IS a commitment) to reading the offerings of the Journal of Mental Environment... One can't help but feel that they are subjecting themselves to WAY too much fucking jargon, and not nearly enough practicality, which in my opinion is a pretty lethal combination. Sometimes the articles just read like a freakin 4th grader trying as hard as they can to sound like they know what the fuck they're talking about by thesaurus-ah-rizing every god damn word they can, and by making up brand new ones to substitute for which there IS no synonym, until it's gotten to the point where the writing makes absolutely no sense, and yet all the smart and aware kids think it does because... well because it's in Adbusters. And yes, I am WELL AWARE that 'thesaurus-ah-rizing' is in fact not a word, and that I did in fact make it up. But I don't write for a well respected magazine, so it's okay.

And like, my old roommate and best friend, let's call him... JERKFACE - he to me epitomizes the regular Adbusters reader. This is of course a sweeping generality, but aren't those the best kind? He like, totally doesn't eat meat, but don't ask him why, and he can't fucking stand people who wear brand name clothes and shit, like, why can't they find they're OWN style, why do they have to cater to the media's expectations of what they should look like. Oh, yeah, those are Nikes he's wearing, but, he's inked out the label, so it makes it okay. I remember one night when he had a friend over, a guy he was kinda seeing at the time, and I was in bed, trying to sleep, and they were... attempting to have a conversation about politics. It was the most pathetic thing I've ever heard. All Jerkface really talked about was how he was a Communist, because it's such a great method of governing, even though it doesn't really work in practice, but he's a big fan of the important Communists in history, like Marx... ... ...
And basically they just sat there and regurgitated grade ten history class like it was some kind of fucking spectacle, that they knew these things, and it was just really funny to me.

There's tons of people like that out there, so concerned about NOT being stylish that they create a style of their own; so concerned about the state of the world yet not quite willing to find the relative knowledge; so aware and learned, yet so completely and entirely not... And I'll bet you money my friends, that most of them have a subscription to Adbusters.

Seems like I'm talkin a lotta trash about the mag, and I reckon that's pretty unfair, since I do like a lot of it. If you'll give me a moment, I'm going to take a quick gander at my own copy to see if the story I read and loved will take me a million years to type out for you. Stay with me now.


Okay it's not, so here I go.

outlet village
by peterherman

"I need to eat a salad," said the woman, steam rising from her magenta lips. "It's freezing. A person could, like, die out here or something. I should've bought those Diesels, don't you think? I bet I could've fit into them by Christmas. It'd be something to shoot for."
"So you go take a steam and a sauna," said her husband. "You'll come out feeling like a million bucks."
"The steam room makes me retain water."
The man grunted and looked down at his cell phone. They were standing in the Outlet Village parking lot, their legs nearly hidden behind shopping bags. The outlets were designed to resemble a medieval hamlet, sans slop pails and the Plague, and with colourful brand-name logos in place of coats of arms. Beyond the village rose wave upon wave of wooded, snow-covered hills bare of foliage save for the hemlock, spruce and pine sprinkled throughout. Looking up into this wilderness, the woman's mascara-rimmed eyes narrowed; she might have been surveying a wasteland of yellow brimstone.
A red van pulled up, the husband and wife climbed inside with the driver retrieved their bags, and they sped off onto a narrow road that wound between the trees. As the couple watched the outlets disappear from sight a disquiet came over them.
"We'll get a DVD," said the man, brightening, "They've got Top Gun down there at the front desk."
"I really just need to relax, Sal. Maybe I'll get an aromatherapy."
The woman was in her mid-thirties, well put together, with all the right clothes. Her burgundy nails looked fit for killing, her hair was designed by New York City's best and gayest stylists, and a rich scent like furniture polish mixed with cotton candy rose off her pampered skin. Her eyes looked tired, though, and in her abdomen she seemed to carry excess weight and grief.
"You just got aromatherapy. You said it bothered your sinuses."
"Sal, I really need you to support me right now, okay? I think I might have the driver stop for a Diet Coke, or some Tums."
"Tums, I got Tums right here."
"No, I think it's Rolaids. Rolaids are the ones that work for me."
"You want Rolaids? We'll get Rolaids. Driver, where can we find a Duane Reade? You know, a drug store."
"I can take you to a drug store," said the driver, an older gentleman with a lined ruddy face and age-spotted hands, "but it's about ten minutes out of the way."
"Forget it, Sal. Forget it." The woman's voice was a dry monotone. "I just want to get back to the hotel. My head is killing me. They'll have something there."

To Be Continued...

Okay I've been typing for 15 minutes and am only 1/4 of the way through, and like, that's too fuckin long y'all. So I'm going to go and take a bath, then see a movie with my Secret Agent Lover Man, because he had a tooth pulled, and he needz treetz, and theeen I'll put another part up. Sound good?

Yay, I'm back for awhile!