So I'm sitting around reading my new GQ magazine, a subscription to which was given to me by my Aunt Elayne for my birthday last month.

I love joke presents.

It is kind of like Cosmo for men, only with the sex turned WAY down. The female Cosmo is published for extremely, mightily, obsessively horny women, women whose entire lives revolve around getting laid and working at “the office”. Every other article is about porking, and all the rest are about losing weight, wearing make-up, or getting thin. Oh, and also what to do about that bitch Courtney in the next cubicle. You’ve come a long way, babies!

“25 moves that will drive him mad in bed!”–like you need that many or even 3. Haha. Men are simple creatures. We want you to have sex with us and go down on us periodically (actually constantly, but we can manage periodically). That’s it. We might even do the dishes or babysit our own kids, in turn.

GQ is more about how to spend money on really expensive clothes, and the various creams and lotions and potions and chemicals, all of which smell like musk, you need to rub on your body and hairs (facial, headal, chestal, assal, and pubic) before you put them on. Consumerism, in other words. Everybody makes fun of climate change deniers, then they hop in their SUVs to drive five blocks for some more disposable plastic shit made in China. Um, ok.

I’m actually disappointed there isn’t a “25 moves that will drive HER mad in bed” article, because, to tell you the truth, I’m running out of ideas over here. I’m poking and prodding and licking and chewing and getting nothing. More like 25 moves that will MAKE her mad in bed.

I must say, though, that I will be smartly dressed and musky-smelling when she comes to her senses and dumps me. So, thank you, GQ.

I guess.