I have always loved magazines, since I was very small. Even now, I read many magazines on a weekly basis, mostly to find their editor’s address so I can send them begging letters. Sometimes I even read the articles, and then I sneer at the amateurs who write them, laughing at how low the journal in question has fallen, and how much they need The Imaginary Reviewer writing for them, to bring them up to a high level of quality.
This week I decided to take a look at the children’s magazines on offer, and see if they’re as bad as all the other magazines that don’t even have the class to respond to my unsolicited submissions.
This month’s copy of Kid Blast! magazine has a wealth of features and news. For example, there’s an exclusive interview with Dora the Explorer’s former boyfriend. He tells of the popular character’s harrowing addiction to painkillers and sherbet. Many pages are dedicated to secretly obtained photographs from Lazytown, where popular stars Stephanie and Robbie Rotten have been romantically linked. Also in this fascinating magazine are questions about Maisy Mouse’s recent weight problem: Could it be due to a serious illness? And which of the Backyardigans is gay? Find out inside!
Kindergartener Quarterly features an essay by Umberto Eco on the multilayered empirical interpretations of the Spot the Dog stories, which I found to be both thought provoking and enjoyable. I especially liked the very pretty pictures. A new short story by Margaret Atwood about a girl and her favourite pony is also a good addition to this journal, as is the investigative report on the economics of transport and how they are affecting anthropomorphic tank-engines. On the other hand, the article which investigates the possibility of a future terrorist attack by the Grinch is nothing short of salacious hackery.
Finally, Martha Stewart Pre-Schooler magazine is jam-packed with great ideas for the average three-year-old. This month, she shows how to liven up any dolls’ tea-party by adding a wonderful blend of imaginary spices to the non-existent tea. There are also fun ideas for brightening up one’s Wendy house with recycled dummies and Lego bricks, and also the top ten ways to wrest Mummy’s attention away from that annoying new baby brother.
Children should be supervised at all times when reading magazines and books, lest their innocent brains become influenced by subversive ideas, and they learn that they’re adopted.
Showing posts with label children. Show all posts
Showing posts with label children. Show all posts
Thursday, 21 May 2009
Tuesday, 18 September 2007
Art Exhibition Review: Saint Whopp's (CofE) Primary School
I attended the opening night of Saint Whopp's Primary School's annual art exhibition with my son, Monty, hoping that this year's festival of paint would be better than last year's godawful shiteshow. How wrong I was.
Take Tommy Chapstick's work, for example, if you want to see why St Whopp's school is famed for its laughable art. The thick strokes of blue, yellow and red are daubed on the paper in such an amateurish fashion that I initially thought someone had mounted dog vomit on the wall. If only they had. Chapstick (6 and a half) should be ashamed of the drivel to which he is subjecting the world. It was all I could do to stop myself from spitting on the painting, entitled, incidentally, My Mummy.
Suzie Bedknobs (5) is another artist whose work would be better off used as toilet paper in the elephant house at the zoo. While her vivid swirly circles are no doubt intended to evoke the spirit of Kandinsky, instead they evoke the kind of bloated indigestion that one gets after eating too many snails. Maybe the swirls are supposed to be snails. Who can tell? Who cares? Not I.
I have never felt as physically sick when looking at a work of art as when looking at seven year old Robert Fromme's painting, My House. Not even during Pierre Gabstank's installation that comprised of nothing but rotten eggs and deer crap. The shit on the paper was enough to make me shout obscenities at Fromme's father, Bill. Fromme Sr. became angry with me so I resorted to punching him for raising such an untalented child. Then I punched Robert for being so crap.
The only saving grace in the entire show was the wonderful work by brilliant genius child Monty Reviewer. The beauty of the subtle, gradiated colours in his painting, Daddy, were enough to put tears in my eyes. That the hands of the figure in his painting had seven and ten fingers, respectively, was unimportant. The child really caught the essence, the spirit of his subject. This work alone is more than enough to make up for the rest of the dross on display here. So come and see for yourself!
Saint Whopp's Primary School's art exhibition is on until their next art lesson, when the paintings will be sent home with the kids. To discourage nonces, all male visitors to the school must leave their testicles with the bursar.
Take Tommy Chapstick's work, for example, if you want to see why St Whopp's school is famed for its laughable art. The thick strokes of blue, yellow and red are daubed on the paper in such an amateurish fashion that I initially thought someone had mounted dog vomit on the wall. If only they had. Chapstick (6 and a half) should be ashamed of the drivel to which he is subjecting the world. It was all I could do to stop myself from spitting on the painting, entitled, incidentally, My Mummy.
Suzie Bedknobs (5) is another artist whose work would be better off used as toilet paper in the elephant house at the zoo. While her vivid swirly circles are no doubt intended to evoke the spirit of Kandinsky, instead they evoke the kind of bloated indigestion that one gets after eating too many snails. Maybe the swirls are supposed to be snails. Who can tell? Who cares? Not I.
I have never felt as physically sick when looking at a work of art as when looking at seven year old Robert Fromme's painting, My House. Not even during Pierre Gabstank's installation that comprised of nothing but rotten eggs and deer crap. The shit on the paper was enough to make me shout obscenities at Fromme's father, Bill. Fromme Sr. became angry with me so I resorted to punching him for raising such an untalented child. Then I punched Robert for being so crap.
The only saving grace in the entire show was the wonderful work by brilliant genius child Monty Reviewer. The beauty of the subtle, gradiated colours in his painting, Daddy, were enough to put tears in my eyes. That the hands of the figure in his painting had seven and ten fingers, respectively, was unimportant. The child really caught the essence, the spirit of his subject. This work alone is more than enough to make up for the rest of the dross on display here. So come and see for yourself!
Saint Whopp's Primary School's art exhibition is on until their next art lesson, when the paintings will be sent home with the kids. To discourage nonces, all male visitors to the school must leave their testicles with the bursar.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
