When I spoke to Hugh Hefner

I hear that Hugh Hefner is stalking Kate Winslet like a prairie wolf in the hope of persuading her to pose nude in Playboy. “She will never agree!” I hear you cry. Yet many female celebrities thought they could resist the old lecher's advances, only to relent when he fixed them with his snake eyes and reached for his cheque book. Part of me, of course, hopes that Hef will get his way. It is beyond dispute that Kate’s body is one of the most beautiful objects on Planet Earth. The manager of the safari camp was so impressed by her nude peeing scene in Holy Smoke that he was inspired to write these lines of verse:

More fertile than the Nile Delta

More luscious than the Melons of Malta
More curvaceous than the Hills of Beverly
More inviting than the Hot Springs of Wherever

I told him the last line needed work.

However delightful another glimpse of Kate’s gorgeous body would be, one must concede that there are sound reasons for her to refuse. It pains me to say that Playboy is no longer the respected periodical it once was. Gone are the in-depth analysis and wry commentary that its sophisticated readers used to appreciate. Even the crossword puzzle lacks the brain-teasing bite of old. It’s a sorry example of dumbing down to compete with the internet.

I once spoke to Hef on the phone to give him some ideas for improving his organ. If you think I just dialled his number and said “hello” you are sadly mistaken. My people spent weeks negotiating with his people before Larry Flynt’s people were brought in to mediate. An agreement was finally hammered out, and I won’t bore you with the details of that document. Suffice it to say that I promised to refrain from mentioning anything that might embarrass Hef or make him feel like a doofus. So I rang at the pre-arranged time, coinciding with the end of his afternoon nap. From memory, the conversation went something like this:

GB: Mr Hefner, is that you? This is Gorilla Bananas speaking.

HH: Call me Hef, GB. I hear you’ve got some ideas for my magazine.

GB: You bet Hef! You should hire a big name to write for you. People say you only like blue-eyed blondes, so I suggest you approach Oprah Winfrey.

HH: Playboy has had many African-American models, GB, but Miss Winfrey is not the finest specimen of her race. If you’d said Whitney Houston I would have understood where you were shooting from, but...

GB: Excuse me for interrupting, Hef, but I’m not suggesting you publish naked pictures of her! It is her writing ability that you need. Ask her to describe in detail all the hoochie-mama loving she’s done. I guarantee that your circulation will double if she writes a story with the headline: “MICHAEL JACKSON ATE MY PUSSY!”.

HH: You know for a fact that happened?

GB: Who’s going to deny it, Hef? It makes Oprah look good, and a wuss like Michael Jackson isn't going to say anything in public about going down on a woman, even if he didn't do it. I’m not actually certain he knows what it means.

HH: I like the way you think, jungle fella! Leave it with me and I’ll float it around.
Been a pleasure to talk with you, GB.

GB: And for me, Hef! Give my regards to the playmates!

The months passed and I heard nothing from Hef. Then a Playboy insider revealed that negotiations with Oprah had reached an advanced stage, only to flounder on the issue of money. When Hef heard the fee she was demanding he reputedly said:

“That overfed crow can kiss my ass if she thinks I’m paying her more than the cost of running the mansion.”

It tells you a lot about his priorities, doesn’t it? Surrounding himself with dolly birds is more important than making his magazine admired for its prose as well as its pictures. I hope his mangy dick falls off.

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