“Humans. Geeze,” I thought, as I looked at the store’s magazine display. “Males, especially.” I shook my head, and even though I knew I shouldn’t, and I’d be wasting my time, I started sorting through the magazines as I looked, putting them back where they belonged. Each time I found one out-of-place, I heard myself think, “That doesn’t belong there.” So, I’d pick up the misfiled magazine, and put it belonged, with the other copies of itself.
It was how I made any sense at all out of the magazine display. The only way I could figure out what I had, and had not looked at. The only way I could figure out what they actually had for sale.
I knew I’d do the same thing on the grocery shelves, or the clothes racks, or any other open display I wished to look at. I knew I would have to, just to keep myself from going insane.
As I sorted the magazines, I noted a new issue of Car and Driver was available. I picked one of them up, and examined the cover. As usual, the cars on the cover drank gasoline like an alcoholic drinks alcohol. By the gallon. “A car technology magazine, priding itself on the state of the art in automobiles, and they advertise, and evaluate dinosaurs.” I carefully put the issue back where it belonged, with the other copies of Car and Driver.
“Shotgun Magazine.” I shook my head. It wasn’t even in the right area. Some lazy bastard had picked it up, while his wife shopped, and he was killing time. And when she came and got him, he just threw it back on the rack, anywhere. “Typical.”
Did I mention I didn’t have a high opinion of my fellow males?
“At least it’s not February.” The month Sports Illustrated published it’s Swimsuit Issue. And you could find copies of that sucker all over the display rack. Hidden behind other magazines. By males who didn’t want their significant others to know they’d peeked at it’s contents. Inevitably, you’d find Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issues behind such things as Science Digest and Time. And sometimes, even behind Shotgun Magazine.
There were days I felt like the chaos of the magazine rack mirrored the chaos the planet was descending into. A planet of “there’s only me.” A world where no one thought about anything but what they wanted. And if you wanted the same thing, they’d run over you with a truck to get to it first.
There were times I stared at the chaos of car magazines, gun magazines, and magazines whose sole purpose was to teach men to think with a certain part of their anatomy (and I don’t mean their brains), jumbled together on a store rack, and I knew why the country was all FUBAR. The country just mirrored the condition of the magazine rack.
Human males. Geeze. There really was no hope for the species.