Right before graduating, Matt Di Pasquale asked me to submit a humor article for a magazine he was working on publishing, a Harvard-sanctioned porno mag called Diamond Magazine. I passed, as it was way to risky to associate my name with something that could potentially be offensive, terrible, etc., etc.
Well, I was right to wait.
I will point out some of my favorite parts:
* The cover: Is he really on the cover? Really? I can only imagine Matt's sale pitch: "All Playboy and Hustler ever give you are pictures of beautiful, naked women. At Diamond, we give the readers what they really want: shameless, half-naked shots of our hairy editor. Diamond: Where vanity meets profanity."
Also, the tag, "Know Your Politics: Cause It's Getting Time to Vote," should be sold as a bumper sticker. At least in the blue states.
* Page 7-8: If you don't have any real letters, why not print the random phrases your tech guy used to test the contact form? Or letters from people interested in joining that I'm sure they wanted to be printed on a freakin' letters page.
* Pages 13-24: Diamond is supposed to be a nude mag (at least according to Matt and to the Harvard Crimson which recognizes that the word "nude" attracts many more hits and readers than "diamond," as evidenced by every article ever that they've written involving Diamond.) but here are twelve - twelve! - pages of Fiona as clad as possible. Where are the boobies?!?
* Page 29-38: This is an interview with Matt Di Pasquale (surprise!) by Matt Di Pasqaule. Read that again: he interviewed himself. In fact, if you weren't clear about that, he makes sure to point that out on page 38: "Did you just interview yourself? Kinda... but how will they know?" Indeed, how will they ever figure your brilliant self-interviewing scheme out. Harrison, do you know? Why, yes - thanks for asking! Could it be because he just said it or maybe because the name of the interviewer and interviewee are the same? I think it's both. I think you're right. (This also makes exchanges like "I did a bit of local organic farming and played hockey. Field hockey? No, ice hockey" totally ridiculous.)
And then - if you were worried about not getting to see any nudie - you get to page 33 and... PENIS! Exactly what men were expecting to get when they download his "nudie mag."
Also, in case any woman was turned on by this absurd photo, he made sure this question and answer were printed on the page: "Anything prospective applicants should know? I fart under the covers. Dutchover style, baby!"
The obvious thing to point out is that he's breaking the law and exposing himself out in public, in broad daylight. How did he not get arrested?
The answer is that he took these pictures in, like, 3 seconds. Look at the man with the red cap on walking off the bridge on the right side of the photo. In the subsequent photos, notice how he's only inches further away. In other words, Matt wore his towel to the bridge (page 34), then threw it off (page 33), turned around for a sec to show his ass (page 35), and then turned back around again for another shot that looks almost identical to the first one (page 37).
That's not a photo shoot - that's just a crime.
Page 34: "She said my splooge tasted like unripe bananas." No comment. I'm glad his Mom was referenced on the letters page as being proud.
Finally, on page 38 - after a NINE page interview with HIMSELF, Matt concludes by asking and then answering himself: "How do you think this interview went? I think it went great! :) Unfortunately, we'll have to cut it short. I could keep on going and going, and if I don't stop now, we'll never get this magazine out." First of all, who is this "we"? You're interviewing yourself. And, second, was nine pages not enough?
I can only hope that issue two features even more in-depth interviews with this ball-baring super-streaker.
As I said in the beginning, there's only so much time I have to devote to this monument to unintended hilarity, so I'll have to stop myself there. But take a few minutes, download the issue, and enjoy yourself. No, not like that, ya perv.
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