Hugh Hefner Is Dead To Me

The other night I find myself watching quite possibly the worst, tasteless, classless reality show on television. And that's saying something. I speak, of course, of "Kendra," the latest in a long, blonde line of Hugh Hefner's ex "girlfriends" who've gone on to the greater pastures of having their vapid lives televised so that idiots like me can sometimes accidentally tune in.
In case you don't know, Kendra was the San Diego chick with the loud, obnoxious laugh, the messiest room in The Mansion and an unabashed thing for Black men. Sometime between Hef "breaking up" with this particular part of the trio of "girlfriends," Kendra went off and found herself a fiance in NFL football player Hank Baskett. The theme is all about how the crazy sexpot can come down from the ivory tower and just live a normal life and make in society. Think of it as "Mary Tyler Moore," only with Chlamydia.
As bad as the E! show is produced - we see Kendra ringing up $400 in groceries while shopping around in a motorized scooter for handicapped folks (LOL!) And then we see her install a stripper pole in her living room while telling her girlfriend, "doesn't my booty look fine right now?" We see her forgetting to call the cable company after her fiance has already put together the plasma TV. Real funny stuff.
But the worst moment of all came out the mouth of Hefner when Kendra and Hank visited The Mansion. Kendra asked him if he was wearing cologne. Hef shot back, "My girlfriend bought me two colognes for Christmas and I'm wearing both of them now. I smell like an Italian whore."
Ha-ha. Laughs all around.
What the fuck is wrong with this man for using that expression? And what the fuck is wrong with E! for allowing it to air?
Can you imagine the shitstorm if Hef had said, "I smell like a Black whore," or "I smell like a Jew whore." Or better yet, "I smell like a Muslim whore."
This was too much for me to take. Here's Hefner, a man who knows a thing or two about whores, since many of his Playmates are known to prostitute themselves out after the layout fades away. My friends in the business tell me The Feds have been looking for the right moment to pounce and make a few, pardon the pun, big busts.
Once there was a day, a Playmate could make six figures over a weekend if she got the right call from the right Saudi Prince. That went on for years. But now they're doing it here at home.
Using the phrase "Italian whore," makes him an asshole in my book now. And that's not easy for me to say having had the honor of driving my car up his driveway and attending some 40 parties over the years. Not to mention the stories I've had published in his magazine. And having spent some wonderful times with the girls in those pages.
But maybe the term "whore" has been fresh in Hef's mind for a while now. It's obvious things have changed at The Mansion. He's pimped out his lavish backyard for Kendra to have her wedding there mainly because he needs the cameras and the press.
The once great magazine doesn't sing like it used to either. What was once 140 pages is now going down a paltry 80. That's hardly enough time for a good tug. This month's issue was a "double issue," which is the kiss of death for a magazine. In the coming months Playboy will only be out 10 months a year. The empire is crumbling. And I would've been the first to cry at its great, big gates on Charring Cross Road. But letting the phrase "Italian whore" slip out the very same dentures I once saw him accidentally spit out at a Hollywood nightspot while he was "dancing" was the last straw for me.
I wrote to the P.R. guy at Comcast, the company that runs E! Italian guy too. I told him, "You know something. Italians don't have an Al Sharpton to call. Or a Jewish Defense League. We just let some time pass. And we wait. One night, when you least expect it, you don't make it to the front porch after stepping out of your fancy car."
Plus I don't need to see centerfolds anymore. My wife is my pin-up.