This is exactly what I meant to say...

My beloved same-sex esposa and I had a little tiny tiff the other day in the check out line at Whole Foods. We each got a magazine for a little reading/cuddling/lounging session planned for later in the evening. My pic? Advocate magazine. Her pic? Vanity Fair. Normally I like the mag she chose - this day, however, I was quite offended by the cover. Paris Hilton "Wears White Her Way" - meaning sparkling white riding pants, and black boots on the bottom half - and on the top half, nothing but a très-$$$$ watch and diamond necklace. Arms covering the "Janet Jacksons", pushing to the middle for a little enhanced cleavage...

Now, why would any self-respecting lover of bodies feminine (and as you can see in the comments stemming from THIS POST, Ms. Hilton's, er, boobies are "just my type...:) be so offended by this cover shot? I tried to explain my thoughts yesterday and, well, sucked at it.

Just today, however, I have discovered that another person feels the same way, and has done a fabulous job of writing why...

From Common Dreams:

I have excerpted the first part of the article, but it is in its entirety a veritable "must-read":

My American Nightmare A US that Chooses as Its Sweetheart a Billionaire Heiress Notorious for Hardcore Sex is No Place to Be.

by Emma Forrest

A malevolent conga line of recent events has made me wonder if, after eight years, I am still glad to live in America. Some were political: of all the terrible imagery to come out of hurricane Katrina, perhaps none was as distressing as the photo of Bush hugging two African-American victims.

Some were 'cultural': actress Denise Richards explaining how she had to wean her newborn early in order to get her breasts in shape for the cover of Playboy.

Some were financial: when Citibank started sending overdue notices on a credit card for which I hadn't been approved. In June, they said I owed $75 and then in July $91. The bills started arriving around the same time my health insurance was canceled. I find myself crossing Fifth Avenue with exceptional caution, certain I am about to meet my insurance-less demise, distracted by things I want to buy with the credit card I don't own.

And I'm middle class. No one at government level stopped to consider how people who were too poor to own cars or credit cards planned to get themselves out of New Orleans.

So it is a curious dichotomy that in this libertarian time of no 'hand-outs', we nominate a billionaire heiress as the nation's sweetheart. There she is on the cover of this month's Vanity Fair, Miss Paris Hilton, whose ascent from drunken hotel heiress to drunken multimedia star is not the final nail in the coffin of my American love affair. The nail is the celebratory manner in which the esteemed publication portrays her.