Last week's More magazine surpassed itself. Second-rate gossip and oh-my-god-look-at-this-D-list-celebrity's-sweat-patch aside, More and similar magazines' sole raison d'etre is the usual, incessant, repetitive litany of "tips" on "how to get an amazing body", "lose weight" and achieve the dream of a "flat tummy".
Week in week out, they line their pages with instructions for a-leaf-of-lettuce-a-day crash diets that will make you look good on the beach. They market impossibly perfect bodies as the one and only thing that would allegedly turn you into a sexy, cool, popular young female. A "fit" body that is sold as the only desirable ambition (aside from the latest A-list fashionable bits and pieces of course). Which makes their token stories of "how I beat my eating disorder", "anorexia" and "bulimia" even more perplexing.
Printing out pea-sized-brain-style vacuity dressed as "exclusive news" is fair and legitimate. But perversely and (not so) subtly perpetrating eating disorders is not. Look at this shit. Under the banner "THE WEEK'S BIG QUESTIONS", page 20 of More (issue 548 - no, before you say anything, I didn’t buy it, I just came across it somewhere!) sported the headline "WHY DOES POOR MISCHA HAVE SUCH BAD CELLULITE?", alluding to Misha Barton's cellulite supposedly disfiguring the back of her thighs. Sure enough there was a photo of the pleasant-looking OC star taken from the front accompanied by another, oh-my-gawd (!), showing the back of her legs. Perfectly normal legs of a human being. Yet, according to More, even Misha Barton, someone who is -surely- thinner than at least 90% of the female population, has a body to be ashamed of.
If THIS WEEK'S BIG QUESTION actively portrays Misha Barton as someone who should sort out her diet and fitness regime, imagine how More readers who are not as superthin as her are made to feel. More's Beauty Editor, for instance, is quoted as saying that "Mischa's love of Taco Bell and Starbucks may explain why she's battling wobbly bits". One would love to line up those peddlers of nothingness, Beauty Editors, Beauty Assistants, Fashion Editors and Beauty Gurus and analyse their fat rolls bit by bit. If hell does exist they'll be probably forced to stand in a circle, guts out, bingo wings and double chins in sight with an army of photographers gawping and giggling at their (perfectly human) imperfections. Because, effectively, that’s what they make a living out of themselves.