After signing up, one of the first people I started following on Twitter was Hugh Hefner. I don’t have to explain to any guys why I did this. They already know. But if you’re a woman here’s the very quick explanation: I, like all other men in the world, maintain a belief that even the most tenuous link to the Heff – like, say, being one of 130,000 following his Tweets – may somehow earn me an invite to the Playboy Mansion for a party where I might somehow score myself a centrefold. Am serious? Yes. Quite.
But let’s reverse park that dream for a moment in the car park of unfulfilled fantasies (level 78 coz it’s chocka-block in there with the bottom ten floors reserved for special guests such as Career, Football Playing, Millions of Dollars, Moving to Rio, Longer Legs, A Full Head of Hair, a Premiership, among many, many spaces) and turn the spotlight onto the Great Robed One himself and how he speaks to me and many like me on Twitter.
Quite frankly, Heff’s Tweets are the most boring on the Twitter network. Mine are more interesting. Yes, they’re mostly lies, but that don’t change nothing. And this isn’t about me. It’s about The Pipe Smoking One and the major disappointments he is issuing forth in 140 characters or less. Here’s a sample:
“Mary O’Conner will be hosting a baby shower for Kendra in September”. I see. And Mary’s cup size is…?
“We’re watching a Poirot mystery tonight. I love the Agatha Christie series on PBS”. Terrific. Agatha will be undressing approximately when…?
“Playing gin rummy tonight with my brother Keith”. Yeah – you’re brother ain’t coming over with cards in mind
And on it goes. Endlessly. Relentlessly. Sexlessly! Is The Heff serious?? These aren’t the day to day happenings of the man who runs Playboy. This is the internal dialogue of every Joe Six-Pack devoting $10 of his shitty monthly salary to by a copy of a magazine featuring hot women in nothing by rabbit ears so that he can spend a couple of moments dreaming about how good it would be to be the bloke that runs Playboy! Heff, you’re killing us.
Here’s some advice: get yourself and the twins or triplets or siamese pair or whatever it is you’re hooked up with these days down into the grotto and start swinging those 70 year old hips of yours and give us something to read about. Coz right now we’re staring down the barrel of you first gardening and suduko tweets.
PS: Heff, the above is quite obviously nothing but fodder for the reading masses and has little bearing on what I actually think of you, the mansion, the girls and, obviously, the parties. It in no way makes redundant my constant party requests. Thanks. You the man.