Dear Decreprit Print Media....

I know, I know. I'm Kate Hudson* and you are my boyfriends. I will date you just because you're in my line of sight.

After inauguration, I begged you to put Mo'Bama and Chocolate Valium and their unfreakishy perfect spawn on any and every magazine cover. I couldn't get enough. And you listened. And by you, I mean Jesus. And by Jesus, I mean Oprah. The Deity deigned to share a cover with Her Royal Sassiness. (Look at this. Does anyone want rainbow sherbert? The kind you buy in those plastic tubs? No?)

But now, it's too much. I have literally spent tens of dollars on your products. I cannot stop myself from buying a publication with Michelle and Co. on the cover. And if it has dense analysis of her biceps and love of organic produce, your publication will often find itself stacked on top of my toilet for weeks on end, thus annoying my roommates. And yesterday, I had to be talked out of the latest glossy while at the grocery store buying cheap cake for my book club meetup. Schmalina, mercifully, was there to talk me down: "Scho, you can read it online. For free."

Ah, yes. The interweb. This is why you're winning.

UsWeekly, you are mostly to blame. You put Mo'Bama and the girls on your covers three weeks in a row. This cost me approximately $12, or a Chipotle barbacoa bowl with guac. What's worse, I'm now buying "women's" magazines. The kind that tell me to love my body while highlighting the latest ways to trim my waistline. Idiots. (They always reminded me of Catholic School** and its "family life" education: they explain what sex is, then tell you not to have it. Idiots.)

Vogue's cover, obviously stunning, prominently featured The Arms:

I want to pump... you up!

But inside, it was just a rehash of the same shit I read before: "I'm so excited to start a new life while remaining balanced blahahaha." And though they touted her "accessible" J. Crew style, she wasn't wearing any plebes' clothes. Where was H&M? H&M is an advertiser. I wear H&M. Mo'Bama wears H&M. What is the problem? (The other "pioneering" women profiled inside included the Queen of Jordan, the supermodel first lady of France, married to that swarthy midge Prime Minister of France, and Melinda Gates—all famous for being wives. And yes, so is Michelle, but she's awesome and Oprahic and doesn't starve herself and made more money than Barack for most their lives and keeps it real, so she's allowed.)

Anyhoodles, this has got to stop. It's cutting into my Chipotle budget. Take a breather. Maybe your profits are up when she's on the cover. Ha. No, they're not! You're still dying. Michelle can't save you and she'd be the first to tell you that.

For gainfully employed*** whiteys like me, in this endless national turmoil as we feel at once scared and smug, there might be an element of wanting a First Girlfriend, a Magical Negro, a tough but maternal Claire Huxtable. Or—cough—a Mammy. A Mammy who dresses like us (!) so we don't feel as bad. But Michelle ain't no Mammy, and she isn't a sitcom mom. She is real, she's awesome, and I want to get Starbucks with her and babysit her kids. Just like my friends and my aunts. She's a Fraunt.

There, put that on your next coverline. You're welcome.

Love,

Your favorite former employee, Schopes



*These are the metaphors you come up with when you have a steady diet of tabloids and government cheese.
** Catholic School is now its own character in the narrative blerg, much like New York was in Sex and the City. Fear not, I will never call it my boyfriend or look earnestly dimly out my window as I ponder its meaning. NEW YORK IS NOT MAGICAL, CARRIE. It's a gross, crowded city full of young crazy ambitious overachievers and old crazy poor people who weren't smart enough to leave for the 'burbs when they had the chance.
*** Knock on wood then cross yourself.