OK, game over. I give up. I spent years making a living as a comic, ridiculing reality, but come on, reality can’t be this stupid. The only thing left for me to do now is to give up all of my earthly possessions, and make a pilgrimage to a Trappist monastery.
First, the “setup” as we call it in comedy. Karen McDougle spends almost a year debasing herself by having an affair with The Orange Julius. It couldn’t have been true love, since even McDougle had to know that Trump’s only true love and devotion is to himself. Then, since he’s famous after all, she decides to shop a “tell all” of her multiple trysts with the original two stroke engine. This is not good juju for a guy now the official GOP candidate running for President, so a rich shitpoke friend, with a publishing empire swoops in to save the day, paying McDougle $150,000 for exclusive rights to her story, with the promise of cover exposure, and future writing gigs. Then rich shitpoke hands the story over to the crypt keeper for safekeeping.
But then that sniveling ingrate Michael Cohen has to come along and muck it all up with his stupid tape recording. Not only does his conversation with Trump about reimbursing AMI by buying the story rights from them expose the plot for the payoff is was, but it also shone a spotlight on the transparency of the scheme, through the fact that AMI had reneged on all of the other contractual actions they had agreed to in the non disclosure agreement. Which put pressure and scrutiny on AMI. For instance, they had offered her future cover exposure. Pecker paid her off in August of 2016. If the National Enquirer publishes weekly, and Men’s Journal monthly, that’s 120 covers that were not graced by Karen McDogle. That’s one helluva backlog fellas!
So, what’s the solution? Put her on a goddamned cover of course. Rachel Maddow did a wonderful job last night, showing how monolithic Men’s Journal is with its cover art, almost universally men who are the epitome of masculinity, photographed in black and white, with a stern expression on their faces. But the September cover of Men;s Journal? A 3/4 body shot of a smiling Karen McDougle, wearing a red sports bra and red workout shorts. Hey, shut up, she’s on the cover isn’t she?
But that isn’t the part that had me rolling on the floor, clutching my ribs. Her name did not appear on the left side of the cover, in large font, as is usual for the cover subject. Instead, it was in payday loan font type in the last spot on the right hand side. But the caption made up in content what it was lacking in prominence.
“Get the Karen McDougle workout!” The Karen McDougle workout? Really? This is a magazine that embodies the male physical mentality, and their readers are going to be busting down the doors to get the complete workout regime of a former Playboy model? Little wonder it took them 12 months to set up the proper exploitation of this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Especially since they didn’t even take a fresh phote, they used a stock photo, and never physically interviewed her for the article.
o, what’s “The Karen McDougle Workout?” The grueling regimen that’s worth $150,000? I think it goes something like this;
Find a flashy, overweight, boorish billionaire wanna be with rich friends. Repeatedly submit to his amorous advances, making sure to bring along plenty of reading material for the one minute late night Showtime sex scenes. Start shopping around the idea of a kiss-and-tell article about the encounter. Find an unethical lawyer to craft a deal with AMI for $150,000 to shut up. Hire a sharper lawyer to shame AMI into letting you out of your non disclosure agreement. Grab a ghost writer, and start working on the book, which will kick Omarosa’s ass, since at least it has sec scenes in it, no matter how depressing they are. Get the long delayed cover on a men’s magazine to get your name back in the headlines. Publish the book. Sail off into the sunset.
Man, that is a brutal workout, I got exhausted just typing it! And yeah, I know, how does this help you improve your abs and gluts, it’s Karen McDougle who had to do all of the working out. What difference does it make? It was never about a stupid men’s magazine in the first place. It was always about the money.
