Yeah, I know this review, like every book report I ever did, is several months late. The Sports Illustrated 2016 swimsuit issue came out in March; but hey, I still haven’t even finished Mrs. Dalloway, and I was assigned that in 1991.
Besides, there were other things taking up my time, like the election and other non-Chanel-Iman-related issues. More to the point, I could read the magazine only in 10-minute increments.
As you know, SI made waves (ha) by putting a “real woman” on their cover. “Real woman,” in this case, either means “thick chick” or is meant to contrast with models who are really just robotic sex dolls made by some really dedicated Japanese guy, which is how we got Barbara Palvin.
The “plus-sized” model in question is Ashley Graham; and while she won’t say it aloud, she’s got to be a little miffed that SI chose this particular year to release three different covers. It’s clearly a case of SI hedging their bets, as if to say, “We want to be pro-feminist, but we’re also polygamists.”
For the record, Graham isn’t the weak link in this chain. She’s certainly attractive, busty to the max, and I’d happily have her for a one-week stand, because a one-night stand isn’t going give me enough time to run my tongue around her thighs.
Nor is it Ronda Rousey, who’s featured in body paint on an alternate cover. I know some guys object to having athletes prominently feature in SI, because their attractiveness is graded on a wider curve. Yeah, I get it: Everyone looks hotter standing next to Dennis Rodman.
(I realize that you guys in Rodman’s crew get a lot of tail; on the other hand, you have to hang with Rodman, so that’s at best a wash.)
But Rousey’s actually flaming hot when her face isn’t being pulped into multi-berry oatmeal by some androgynous, veiny-armed she-hulk. Just check out Rousey’s ass on page 176, and then tear it out and mail it to me, because mine is stuck to page 177.
No, the definite weak link is Hailey Clauson, who may be a “10” on the street, but next to Chrissy Teigen and Emily DiDonato, she looks like the wallpaper to the green room of a 1970s public-access TV show.
She’s a cookie-cutter blonde, and I can prove it: Statistically speaking, the woman half of you are picturing right now is actually Hannah Ferguson. And the other half of you are picturing Hannah Davis, because you have no freaking clue how to tell any of them apart.
If I sound a little bitter, it’s because Simone Villas Boas, Jahane Paris, and Natalia Borges all tried out for the magazine, and none of them got so much as a Bacardi ad. Clearly, any of them would make a better cover model. It’s as if Martin Scorsese asked to direct your wedding video, and you said, “Nah, I’m good with Michael Bay, thanks.”
But it’s like Donald Rumsfeld once said: “You masturbate with the swimsuit models you have, not the ones you can easily Google.” Fine, whatever.
Seriously, though, how does Lily Aldridge keep finding work with that ass when it has so little curve to it? It’s difficult to imagine how she stands up straight, although surprisingly easy to imagine her sitting on my face.
And then there’s Gigi Hadid, who’s hot only when she’s paired with another model, like when Kendall Jenner uses her as a fashion accessory. I wouldn’t have noticed her at all if she hadn’t done those Victoria’s Secret underwear ads with Rachel Hilbert, the combined hot-assery being sweeter than a lollipop fairy pissing high-fructose corn syrup directly down your gullet.
All is forgiven when we get to Nina Agdal. She’s inexplicably freaking hot, even though there’s something “off” about her face. It might be that Joker-inspired chin, with a jawline so chiseled that she could use her face to inscribe the side of your local courthouse.
But holy crap, she’s screamingly hot, as most of you know if you live within 250 miles of my open bedroom window. You could pick up any towel she helped me ruin and scrape off enough DNA to raise armies that could overpower China, India, and Holly Holm simultaneously.
This issue also featured a “virtual reality” photo shoot, in case you need an extra 350 degrees of scenery you can’t spank to. All it does is remind you of the virtual reality of most of the models.
It raises a serious question, though: With all the Photoshop work this mag does, why blow their budgets on exotic locales at all? Haven’t these people heard of a green screen? All you see is water and sand—you could shoot at a cement plant and it wouldn’t make a damn bit of difference.
I can’t imagine the typical reader can tell Miami water from Thailand water anyway. Has anyone ever said, “Gee, my orgasm would’ve been way more intense if that beach had been Vanuatu instead of Bora Bora”? (Tahiti, maybe—their beaches are sluts.)
Despite my reservations, I rate this issue a solid four boobies. I realize that I rate almost all issues four boobies, and I’d probably rate next year’s issue the same. Unfortunately, at this rate, by the time the 2017 issue comes out, I’ll be officially blind.
I’m done.