Donna Lethal

My name has gotten on the mailing list of doom. First the slut-bikini catalogs, now, just plain ugly swimwear and clothing like this:

and now - horror of horrors - Us Weekly.

It arrived two weeks ago in a safe paper wrapper, sparing me mailbox shame. It claimed it was a “gift issue,” or some such nonsense, and begged me to subscribe. I put it in the bathroom along with our far more interesting powder room reading (a bio of Jayne Mansfield; some grammar books; Pat Boone’s “Twixt Twelve and Twenty” and Mr Lethal’s music mags.) It looked out of place … it needed a crocheted doll-toilet-paper-cover or something to complement it.

“Um, that magazine? I didn’t buy it - it came in the mail!” I told the mister, afraid that he’d take the “The Littlest Victims of Britney” as proof of my disintegrating mental state.

Today I opened the mailbox and openly gasped. There they sat: Jen and Angelina, battling it out for all to see, with my name on the address label. No trial edition, no nothing - I swear, I did not subscribe.