I hear that Hugh Hefner got a surprise on his 82nd birthday. A beaming Pamela Anderson, appropriately dressed in her own birthday suit, presented him with a cake. I can’t imagine a sweeter tribute for the old lecher. Photographs of the event show Pammy’s bust looking a lot less globular than usual. Has she finally done the decent thing and had her implants removed? Any hot dog would now be proud to be sandwiched between those baps. It’s a pity Hef was too shy to put his head between them and say “hooey-hooey-hooh!”. I now feel a twinge of regret that I turned Pammy down when she visited the Congo last year. She had applied to become an honorary gorilla, if you recall.
I’m not convinced by the argument of Playboy aficionados that Hef is living every man’s dream. Spending the daylight hours in pyjamas and a dressing gown sounds terribly lethargic to me. Some might say that a man in a house full of dolly birds doesn’t need to go anywhere, but what’s the point of being a stallion if you never have to chase the mares and corral them into the paddock? I wonder if the playmates are really happy about Hef creeping around the place in his bedroom slippers. A woman needs to have a few hours in the day when she can take off the make-up and break wind freely.
I must admit I’ve never had a subscription to Playboy. Every issue supposedly contains at least one penetrating article, but who can be bothered to hunt for it amid all the pictures? As for the centrefolds, I refuse to inspect them unless someone first tells me where the staples are located. Body-piercing is anathema to gorillas and I’d be very annoyed if any of the good bits were obscured. I actually prefer the bunny girls to the models. As cocktail waitresses, they have an impressive knowledge of beverages and their cotton-tails can be used to mop up spills. Having said that, I have no idea why any male customer whose name isn’t Bugs Bunny would find their costumes sexy.
Hef’s latest brainwave is to invite lady bankers who’ve fallen on hard times to pose nude for the magazine. Exploiting the carnage in Wall Street is a very shrewd move – if I were a vulture, I’d send my chicks to Hef for lessons in advanced bone-picking. I hope the old boy takes a Viagra pill when they visit the mansion so he can do to them what they’ve been doing to the country. Actually that’s unfair, I was just recycling an old Woody Allen joke. The real villains, of course, are their male bosses who hogged all the bonuses in the good times. Sadly, there are very few people outside of a high-security gaol who would pay to see them naked.
One can only hope that pictures of these talented women in the buff will cheer the nation in its hour of crisis, much as Dame Vera Lynn kept the British pecker up during World War 2. The American working man needs all the encouragement he can get in these difficult times, and photos of female bankers displaying their triple-A assets may yet stiffen his resolve. As for Hef, it’s about time he groomed a younger stud to take his place at the mansion. Does Warren Buffet have what it takes?
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