Stand aside, Andy, I'm on a roll

I don't want to steal any of Andy Rooney's thunder. But I have a gripe. And you, dear reader, will either have to put up with a bit of ranting or stop reading right now.

As curmudgeons go, Rooney and I have much in common, mainly the color of our hair and a high level of acidity in our blood that affects our brains.

Well, that's one explanation.

Rooney's never-ending expose of how much coffee is really in a one-pound coffee container is as quixotic as my perennial push to open the World Famous Downtown Golf Course and Floodwall Art Museum.

Let's face it. There will never again be 16 ounces of coffee in a one-pound coffee container, and the golf course is still 18 greens short of a Dalhousie or Bent Creek. It's nice to know, however, that floodwall art is well on its way to becoming the chief tourist attraction in our fair River City of Roses and Drive-Though Banks.

My gripe threshold was exceeded this week when my monthly copy of Smithsonian magazine arrived. I like Smithsonian magazine. A lot. In fact, I prefer Smithsonian to National Geographic, which once upon a time was the premier publication for fine photographs and compelling articles. Not any more. National Geographic has turned into a showcase for experimental photo techniques (fuzzy and out-of-focus) and predictable stories that all start in the present tense: "The garuba monkey swings lazily in the mist-shrouded fronds of a moruve palm as guerrilla gunfire crackles in the distance ... ."

Give me a break.

Smithsonian magazine, on the other hand, is filled with story-telling illustrations and straightforward articles that impart more good information in one paragraph than a whole National Geographic piece.

But Smithsonian magazine has succumbed to a terrible, possibly fatal, disease: postcard-size promotions that fall all over the floor or have to ripped from the binding before a leisurely read.

I don't fault Smithsonian for trying to sell more magazines. That's the American way. But who does the marketing department at Smithsonian think will pick up one of the postcards and say, "Geez! I need to send a check today!"?

My wife?

She's the only other occupant of our house, although she rarely ventures into the downstairs bathroom where I store the magazines I read.

Guests?

"Oh, Jimmy Bob, let's go to the Sullivans and see how much we can save on magazine subscriptions by stealing postcard promotions. I'll pretend to have diarrhea so I can go to all three bathrooms while we're there."

Relatives?

"It was so thoughtful of you, Son, to send your latest batch of magazine postcard promotions in my Valentine's Day card."

Not all of the postcard promotions offer half-price off the regular subscription rate (which nobody in his right mind pays) or 75 percent off the full newsstand price.

Some of the postcards promote other magazines. Obviously, the money all goes into the same pot.

And some of the postcards promote prescription drugs with frightening potential side effects. And something called Synvisc, which provides "up to 6 months of osteoarthritis (OA) knee pain relief!" Apparently, after six months, the pain returns. With a vengeance, no doubt.

Tell you what, Smithsonian. I'll pay you whatever it costs to put those postcards in my magazine -- but only if you leave them out. Deal?

R. Joe Sullivan is the editor of the Southeast Missourian.