I sat down to dinner a while ago and, finding nothing of interest on TV, turned instead to the nearest form of printed entertainment within reach — an issue of Seventeen Magazine. Yugh. I don’t know about you people, but if I were bombarded with that kind of vapid, fleshly drivel on a regular basis, I’m pretty sure I would grow up with a pretty twisted worldview and self-image. One can only take so many pages of Rate-Your-Boy quizzes, lipstick and sunglasses, and lithe, nubile teenage bodies in bikinis making out in drunken passion with their [multiple] college boyfriends.
Fortunately I checked the telly again after setting the magazine aside, and King of the Hill was showing. It was certainly a relief to watch something more intelligent. Like, yeah, totally.
(Did I just use the word “telly?”)