Next time you are in a grocery store check out line check out (no, I don’t mean check out) the partially dressed female on the cover of the nearest women’s magazine, the kind my kids call a day-old doughnut. Right, the one with the fake bake tan, the abs of a sixteen-year-old boy, the boobs of a wet nurse, and the knock-your-eye out bottle blondisity. The one who was assembled by an ironic and detached photo shop gay guy the same way your kids play with Mr. Potato Head. Oh, and she also has cancer, non-operable and, more to the point, non-photographable. We can therefore afford to overlook that part.
Douglas Wilson