Yesterday, at twelve I had an appointment with a doctor, and she kept me waiting in the reception area until a quarter to one. There I was getting quietly bored, examining my fingernails, admiring the inside of my eyelids, counting the number of hair on the second joint of my left ring finger (two). You know, fun stuff.

Now, you may say, “Rajneesh, weren’t there magazines for you to read?”

And I would, with a sad smile on my face reply, “Yes there were.” And then I would shake my head and stare off into the distance, an expression of muted sadness on my face, the face of a strong silent man who has seen horrors that he cannot, will not talk about.

The look that the Lone Gunslinger gives in every western, as he contemplates the time, when as an innocent kid he out drew the Lone Gunslinger and became the Lone Gunslinger.

So that’s the look I’m giving you. Squinting off into the distance, desperately hoping that my contact lenses do not pop out of my eyes. I tip my ten gallon hat back, draw my trusty six gun and dive to the left. And then we cut to bullet vision, like the Matrix, or Max Payne, and I shoot the toaster.

Um…Yes. So the reception had magazines. Tons of them, a veritable cornucopia of magazine-osity. It was like the magazine fairy had, in an orgasm of generosity spread her bounty all over the office (Ick!). What I am trying to say is that there were tons of magazines.

Let there be no grounds for ambiguity. Magazines were profusely present. Magazines were profoundly present. Magazines were doing the horizontal mambo with nary a care.Magazines peeped at me from under the chairs; they waved at me from the racks. Some of the more adventurous ones were hanging out near the end tables, doing body shots and playing drinking games. Verily, ‘twas like the reception area that launched a hundred thousand magazines.

And.

They were all women’s magazines.

Specifically, Women’s Health and Healthy Pregnancy. Every fucking issue from the beginning of time. When people hadn’t thought up of pregnancy. When stuff used to reproduce by splitting itself across a diagonal. (One of the halves would go off to sleep and the other half would fume because the sleeping half did not want to talk about its feelings.)

There also was a book of nursery rhymes. It informed me about Jack and Jill, who apparently went up a hill. To fetch a pail of water. (No indoor plumbing). Jack fell down and broke his crown (tiara?), and Jill came tumbling after (Clearly a follower and not a leader. This will reflect badly upon here during her semi-annual review)

In sheer desperation I picked up Women’s Health, and made an astounding discovery. A happy astounding discovery. Women’s Health has more hot semi-naked women in it than Maxim does. Do women enjoy looking at hot semi-naked women? (I hope so!). Does this make them healthy? Is this why the name of the magazine is Women’s Health and not Hot Semi-Naked Women Monthly?

Um, yeah so, don’t judge a magazine by its title.