You know how there are some celebrities toward whom you have a complete, and in some cases irrational, revulsion? I don't mean people like Michael Jackson, toward whom I think we all have a quite natural revulsion. I mean people that other people seem to abide just fine, but that, when you see them, cause you to recoil involuntarily?

That's what Carson Daly does to me. He gives me the hard-core willies. Like, I see his image, and I have to turn away. And I'm not doing it for comic effect. He creeps me. It's like in every picture I can imagine what it would be like to meet him; I imagine he'd smell strongly of some cologne, barely disguising his slightly musty, unshowered aroma, and he'd shake my hand and it would be slightly slick and it would leave my hand smelling like his cologne and b.o. And he'd stand too close, and would take opportunities to touch me in socially acceptable ways -- like my shoulder, or my back -- and not because he was trying to come on to me or anything, but just because he has no social skills and he's a big schmooze hound to conceal that. Now, remember, I don't get MTV, so I've never really seen him in action; my impression -- and I freely admit (for legal purposes) that it could well be totally inaccurate -- is based only on still photographs, and for that reason I really think that Carson Daly should be studied by scientists to determine how he can generate a two-dimensional forcefield of smarm that surrounds the lens of any camera that trains itself on him.

Anyway. I was getting provisions at the grocery store last week and, while glancing about looking for the new GQ with Philip Seymour Hoffman on the cover, I caught a glimpse of Carson Daly on the cover of the February issue of Seventeen. I understand that there are two collectible covers, because both images are featured inside the issue, but I got the one that's unquestionably creepier. Because it's the Valentine's Day issue, Carson is shot from behind, holding a bouquet of roses behind his back with his left hand, and with his head turned toward the camera, grinning and holding his right index finger in front of his lips in the classic "shhhh!" motion. Only...okay, his eyes are dead, because he has dead eyes. I can't help that. And he's grinning, but you can't see his whole mouth for his finger, which makes his grin look more like a snarl. And he's silently motioning for us all to keep quiet. So naturally, all I can think is, "Creepy Uncle Carson wants to give you some flowers and touch you in a special place -- don't tell your mom, 'cause it's our secret!"

(Second legal disclaimer: I don't even know if Carson Daly has any nieces or nephews. I am not saying heis a child molester. I'm just saying I think he could play one on Law & Order, if you know what I mean.)

I bought the issue and try to come to terms with my vehement antipathy toward Carson Daly. Clearly, it didn't work.

The cover profile itself is nothing special, perhaps because it's only about five hundred words long. (It is Seventeen, after all.) The premise is that Carson can't cook, but he wanted to make dinner for his fiancée, Tara Reid, but he can't cook, so Seventeen sent some guy from the Food Network over to give him a tutorial. Whatever. Oh, and the recipes are included, in case any of Seventeen's female readership wants to leave them around and drop hints for their boyfriends. There's a sidebar covering "Daly's fab 4 women" -- his sister, his mom, Marge Simpson (whatever), and Reid -- each accompanied by a picture. And the one of him and Reid is the SECOND-creepiest picture I've seen of Daly. She doesn't look her best either, but he is all unshaven despite the fact that they're at some awards show, and he's diabolically staring down the camera like he's just about to eat Reid, and she doesn't know it yet.

What more can I say? Carson is puffy, scruffy, and creepy, and I just don't approve of setting him up as a potential crush-puppy for Seventeen's thirteen-year-old readers when he's clearly pushing forty and suffering from coke bloat.

(Disclaimer the third: I don't know that Carson does coke. I said so only in my capacity as a satirist. Anyway, maybe Carson's just on his period and retaining water.)

I will give the magazine credit on this count, though -- it runs an advertising spread from Alfred Angelo, a designer of prom gowns, that features several plus-size teen models in the company's designs. I certainly never saw that when I was in high school, and thought it's a small step (and it's an ad, mind, not the magazine's editorial), but still, it's a start.