conglomerate cop-out

Looks like with Conde Nast folding some of its papers and consolidating others, W -the magazine I formerly loved in the flush of youth, now I'm getting annoyed with it's bad habits in old age- is fast becoming a catchall for all the offal the other doomed diaries leave behind. To back track to the upsets at the Conde Bldg. here is a run down of their current troubles: Portfolio has less issues a year, Men's Vogue is being folded into Reg. Vogue (take that Sean Avery!), Rumors of Anna Wintour leaving as EIC of Vogue only to be succeeded by none other than CARINE ROITFELD (I fucking hope!) AND! NO HOLIDAY PARTY!
Back to W, seriously, it's getting old. It's no better than American Vogue anymore. Celebrities on every cover for at least the past 6 months, my hands down favorite being Angelina Jolie on the cover of the ART ISSUE. Even my brainy, art imbibed, sig other-who is usually impervious to women's magazines-scoffed and sighed when he saw the nonsense they were peddling in that particular issue.
This issue, December, which I have yet to even get all the way through because, at my age, I am NOT interested in some tv-drama character-ess pouting through the pages because she, apparently, with being conventionally pretty and fairly tall, is a model now, but you know, she has a career too, like, doing stuff.
Not to be out-shone by the clever cover lines and cover choice, you also get what seems like A MILLION FUCKING PAGES OF WATCHES. Ranging from a modest $84,000 (Chanel) to an aspirational-or asphyxiational depending on who you ask- $800,000 (De Beers). Seriously, watches, as an item, are for the poor; for people who need to know what time it is. To have a watch that costs more than a NYC condo is ludicrous. If you are that rich you have no use for the construct of time; you can pay someone to wear your bedazzled time piece(as fancy watches are called) and tell you the time in the native tongue of whichever far flung locale you are currently detoxing in. To top it off, the watches themselves aren't even all that great to look at! They are so adorned that even a rapping guest on Cribs would find the piece a little outre.
Oh, but it's not over, you then are treated to a food article that I can sum up in 10 words: Who is a thin, pretentious, glutton? So sorry, not you.
A stimulating two pages of "Celebrities are rich, thin, eat astronomically expensive and rare food, but not pedestrian items like spinach-artichoke dip. I would rather die, or give up the treat that is cold bone marrow, than eat that slop. Though, ramen noodles are cool because they are kitschy. Oh, exercise 2 hour a day and maybe you wouldn't be such a poor, fat-ass, dear reader. P.s. you're POOOORRRRRRRRRR and uncultured! lol"
W is becoming that girl in middle school that thinks she is so cool because she has her mom's hand-me-down Coach bag and is totally getting a Beemer for her 15th birthday even though she doesn't get her license for another year (yeah, she failed 1st grade, but that's because the teacher didn't see her true genius). She is the leader of the popular girls despite the fact she has a dog-face and frizzy hair; the other kids probably only like her because she has a trampoline and her parent's let her read Cosmo and watch Cinemax.
In a nutshell, or a $3000 Tumi hat box, W, you've got to go. We really can't do this anymore, pack your monogrammed luggage, take those Cheetos you are hiding behind the water heater and get out of my house. I don't want to see you anymore, you need an intervention, you're out of control, and I just don't love you enough anymore to call and get you on the show. Sorry, it's not me, it's you.