Possibly as an anti-junkmail statement, I began looking resentfully
at the catalogs that clogged up the mailbox of my shop-happy Mother.
But there was also a kind of sympathetic admiration for the copywriters
who brought the backstories of these weird products to life.
I've served in those very copy trenches for many, many billable hours.
A handcrafted magazine from long ago, some of which remains funny,
some of which remains a charming attempt at funny. It's as if a saloon-and-quarry-based town tried for their own version of The New Yorker, if that helps. Proceed with caution.