Hugh Hefner, you “American Institution” you. I have respect for you, because you are a genius. You gave men a voice. Men didn’t have a voice before and they needed one. You brought forth Playboy, which contained thought provoking articles, interesting probes into culture and politics, an intelligent view of American life then and now, a voice for the voiceless, and all importantly, fold out pussy. Plus you had details about all that folded out pussy, her turn ons and turn offs, her hobbies, what she liked to eat for breakfast, things American men needed to know about pussy with staples in it. Believe me, I have jerked off to my uncle’s moldy old back copies of Playboy so many times, I am sure I owe you residuals. I am just amazed that the other men’s magazines cannot compete.
You were cool, you always had on your bathrobe because why get dressed? You were always fucking. Pants were just going to slow you down. Why bother?
I went up to that mansion of yours once, you weren’t there though. I imagine you were getting a hip replacement. Are you still fucking those young bitches? How is that humanly possible? You are so old you can’t make jiz, you make glue. That’s right. You need to get you to the factory. It’s cool Hef, I am just playing.
You are old as fuck, you still keep about 200 to 300 head of ho around and you have them stagger out the days they take the birth control pill so that you don’t got to fuck around with no menstruating bitch. God forbid you get blood on that sacred turkey neck gobble gobble Thanksgiving phallus of yours.
When I was up in the crib, you had a lot of young stars, a nice bar, some people checking out the lagoon (which you need to get the pool man to clean out one of these days – it is a little cloudy, if you know what I mean), girls everywhere, more silicone than Silicon Valley, and ghosts of titties past, sadly wandering the halls waiting for you to come back to them, after you had promised, but really had been putting them out to pasture.
It’s time for you to go Hef. The farm is ready for purchase, and you can get a loan like that – I am pretty sure. I just want to say thanks, I mean really. Thank you for the mammaries. Thank you for giving men a voice. I want to know you. I want to know your secrets. You changed this world, for the better or worse, you did it. I want to do the same thing. I can’t use fold out pussy. You already did that, you bastard. What can I do? Can I pose? Don’t you think that American men could use some stretch marks and a bitch who seems to never stop having her period? Turn ons: screaming my head off about societal inequality and the cultural debts owed women for centuries and crayons. Turn offs: blatant misogyny, uncomfortable lingerie and Viagra. I would love to fold out my pussy for your magazine anytime. But I don’t think you would like it.
Old motherfucker. Clean out that pool. Old motherfucker. I’m just playing. Your pool is clean.