Local Man Blasts Sports Illustrated’s Annual Bikini Smutfest

SportsIllustratedTO THE EDITOR, SPORTS ILLUSTRATED: As the father of two red-blooded, heterosexual, all-American teenage boys ages 15 and 17, I have long believed that your magazine fills the gaping hole left in our cultural milieu in those years the Olympics aren’t held.  Where else can we follow sports nobody cares about (e.g.,women’s sports, sports that originated in other countries, etc.) alongside the real ones?  Where else can we thrill to extreme close-ups of the misshapen scowls of athletes who’ve just taken a direct hit to the danglers?

My love affair with SI ended forever last week when the latest issue arrived in the mail, your annual “swimsuit edition.”  Instead of being greeted, as I had hoped, by some Olympic athlete I’d never heard of on the cover, I was assaulted by a sneering, 22-year-old Brooklyn Decker, bikini top gently resting on her left shoulder instead of straining to cloak her burgeoning swell.  She taunted my inability to reach through the photograph to cup, stroke and knead her tantalizing, surging offerings.  

Words can’t describe my palpable disgust. I knew immediately that the garbage bin wasn’t enough for this cesspool; it would require the heavy-duty shredder usually reserved for my Visa card statement with the charges too complicated to explain to my wife.  I would destroy this abomination as quietly as possible so that my boys would never learn that Time, Inc. sought to dictate their masturbatory schedules.

And it had to be done immediately. I would not have this thing in the house an instant.  I quickly opened it to read the ads (I owe it to my family to be financially thrifty) and was subjected to a cavalcade of yamas, warheads, gozangas, PT boats, bazooms –page after page of twin loveliness on parade, throbbing with need, taunting my bald-headed gigglestick to pay homage to their swollen bounty. 

“I might as well subscribe to Barely Legal, Asian Babes or Black Tail as read this putative ’sports’ magazine,” I said aloud to no one in particular. Not that I am familiar with any of those filthy publications, or their depraved photographs of breasts and pudenda. 

From the kitchen, my wife yelled, “what did you say?”

I scanned the ads as quickly as humanly possible, because I refused to have this thing in the house another instant. In Reebok’s pullout, featuring eighteen bikini-clad young women, Ms. Decker’s boppers spilled excitedly from the floss that covered her upper torso.  There she is again on page 29, topless on the beach with a laptop in her lap (I must give the photographers credit for realism); and then again on pages 52-53, 62-63, and the ultimate on page 74.

By this time, naturally, I was beyond disgusted.  I would not have this thing in the house another instant because I can only imagine the temptations my sons would experience if they were to see sand-covered, topless temptress Christine Teigen.  Or Genevieve Morton, with the pink-tipped curved mounds peeking — and peaking – through her see-through top.  Or Dominique Tiek, whose creamy, taut, cleavage is so tight it looks as though it could cut off a finger, or other appendage.  How would I explain to my boys that every girl on pages 122-129 is completely naked, covered only with paint, and that if the boys were to scan the pictures, download them, and zoom in on them, they would see actual nipples?  Worse, Hillary Rhoda’s caress of an elephant’s plentiful trunk on page 148 is more metaphor than I could ever describe.  And Bar Refaeli’s centerfold practically commands, ”Go milk the lizard, boys!”

No, I have never been more disgusted in my entire life, Sports Illustrated. And as soon as I finish reviewing the ads, I will shred this pit of putrefaction, because I won’t have it in the house another instant.

Yours truly,

Noah Swayne

Feb 15