Hugh Hefner, a bow and a wow!

I thank Hugh!
I thank Hugh with all my heart, my soul, and my ever blossoming body.
I thank YOU too, for reading these words of gratification.
Humungous gratification.

As an avid Playboy and Playboy junkie, I’ve been collecting issues of the famed Mr. Hefner’s salacious, slurp-worthy, svelte sexiness that made me slobber all over my high school uniform. I slobbered into my shorts too, as a teen not in control of his hormones. But Hugh, you helped me grow. And grow I did. Delightfully, I thank thee Mr. Hugh. I grew. I expanded and I exploded. In my mind, I mean. All thanks to the insightful articles, the intense humour, the scathing editorials and the gentlemen’s personal grooming tips. Oh yes, there were the sexy centrefolds and the Playmates of the month and all those celebrity bosoms spilling out of the pages too. Those helped me grow into a well-rounded personality as well.

I read somewhere that the more you are grateful for, the more you get, that’s why I chose to turn blogger. To thank you. A blog dedicated to all those young men who want to be primed into Playboys like me.

You know what made me cool? The ability to walk away from women, however hot. That made me more desirable to them. I didn’t beg, I didn’t weep, I didn’t act like some stalking creep? I shrugged and said, “Ok cool! Maybe some other time?” It made them take to the chase. I could do that because I could have a private date with anyone I wished for – Kim Kardashian? Madonna? Eva Herzigova? You name it, all in the palm of my hand. My datelines lay in my fate lines, my destiny.
I blossomed as a youth. I grew into a fine young man, honed by the suave statement of Playboy and inspired by the personal style of the magazine columns.

I could speak on politics, I knew what fork to use for what course (unlike D’Caprio’s JACKshit on ‘Titanic’) and I knew what colours to wear what season and what wine to sip with what meats. Uh huh!

That’s the statute of all gents and the languorous fate of the elite.
We are called Playboys because we know what car to choose over what woman and what lady to take for what drive.
It’s what makes us special. The secret Playboy society. More on that in my next blog. Right now my manicurist calls.

Pssst! Till then, yoo hoo, Hugh.


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