Dear Men's Magazines

I have come to an unfortunate place in my life where magazines believe that I have become a grotesque man-beast whose general interests diverge too far from the status quo.  Little to none of my interests that do not involve boobs are represented in any significant proportion.  Worse, I am typically left with the feeling that I am completely unknowledgeable about anything relevant to my peers today.  This tends to be a real concern when I had to ask my bosses who Nicki Minaj was, and I wish I had never found out about that troll faced goatsucker.

I've have had a subscription to Maxim magazine since college, which keeps becoming an increasingly larger and more disturbing number of years, no matter how much hoodoo and blood sacrifices I make.  After my age stopped having a 2 at the beginning, hell, for a while before that, I fell out of the tits-and-beer frat boy love fest that has encapsulated.  Yet, somehow, I kept the subscription, even though I sometimes have to Google the cover model to figure out who they are or why they are famous.  I don't want half of the so called "awesome" gadgets they post, and I have little to no use for the exotic beers and liquors they post.  If it isn't gin, there's a pretty good chance I don't care.  If it is gin, chances are I don't really feel like reading about it.

Beyond Maxim, the only other paper magazines I have purchased in the past 15 years have been trade magazines about filmmaking, which are too fine-tuned to count.  You have to be a certain type of person to buy Cinematographer magazine, just like only certain types of nerds will buy quilting magazines, and only my friend Kurt will buy "Small Dutch Women Silently Crying" magazine.  This may be why only the more broad magazines, like "Cat Fancy" and "Southern Living" are the types of magazines that stay in business, because everyone loves kittens and people that lost a war and continue to bitch about states rights.

So, if I were to want to read a magazine more geared to men, where would I turn?  Men's Health and Men's Fitness are magazines full of pictures of men I will never look like, and tips on how to do exercises that my body cannot do that should supposedly help me someday look like those men that I will never look like.  Playboy and Hustler are full of women that I will never be able to sleep with, but apparently there are articles too.  Sports Illustrated covers basketball, which isn't a sport, so it is a den of lies, and I like my New Yorker magazine like I like my coffee: thrown in someone's face, because it was not to my liking. 

You would think with the proliferation of online men's magazines that I might finally find one to call my own.  As always, you are wrong, and the world hates me.  AskMen.com is what Maxim magazine would be in the editor in chief went on an ether and ecstasy binge at a Hooters.  It has more stupid dick jokes than Joe Rogan, which is unfathomable.  Any magazine that is geared towards men's clothing, like Primer or A Continuous Lean only focuses on normal sized men, nowhere explaining what shirt can best downplay those aspects of my body that would categorize me as a "galoot".  A gadget magazine like "Gear Patrol" has something that I could actually afford to buy perhaps once every few days, and even then it is something I wouldn't like.

Then came The Art of Manliness.  Chock full of old timey goodness that appeals to my more Ron Swanson tendencies, I thought I had fell in love, but again, I was led astray.  After reading their article on safety razor shaving, I outfitted myself with all the gear, thinking I was in for the best shave of my life.  Five days later after the layers of skin finally began to scab over and the wind was no longer hitting raw muscle, I vowed I would never use the safety razor again.  You should have explained that when you said a "wet shave", you meant that your razor will glide elegantly down your cheeks as it is lubricated with your blood and tears.