Hugh Hefner

I’m going to try to be respectful for a minute.  Partially out of (long-dead) respect for the man I used to want to be, and partially because I don’t want to sound like one of the snarky bitches who run the celebrity gossip blogs.

At this point in his life, Hugh Hefner is pretty much just a lecherous, old jackal but back when I was in high school, there was no one else in the country I wanted to trade places with more than Hef.  He had a fuckton of money, everyone loved him, and he lived in a mansion where no matter what direction he was facing, he was looking at a potential blow job from one of the hottest girls anyone had ever seen.  Superficial, yes, but on the other hand…so fucking what?

But eventually he got old, and the playboy lifestyle that made him look so cool back in the day now just makes him look lame:

Hef The Guy Hef The Tard
This looks like the founder of a publishing empire. This looks like someone named Commodore Scoopy.

I guess everything boils down to that superficial thing:  When you’re in high school, Hefner’s life is a wet dream.  But then you start to get older and (hopefully) mature a little and you look at that life and you start to wonder how the hell he dates that many women without putting a gun in his mouth.  Hef probably dated more girls in 1982 than I’ve dated in my entire life and I came damn close to putting one in my mouth.  And then you grow up a little more…actually, I’ll stop with this second person shit now…I grew up a little more and met a really great girl and got married and these days I look at Hef’s life and I just find it kind of sad.

See, it turns out the reason high school boys think Hef is God is because Hef never grew the fuck up.

He’s gonna be 83 years old this April 9th (he and I share a birthday, that’s the only reason I know this) and he is living proof that:

  1. It’s better for some celebrities to die young.
  2. You can totally have too much money.
  3. Pretty much no one can stand up to the scrutiny of the modern media for very long.
  4. Growing up and turning into a boring, old fuck might actually be a good thing.

What a bummer that guy is.  Why can’t everyone have the same good sense that Bettie Page had?


Tim Hatch lives in a secret volcano headquarters somewhere in the South Pacific, where he controls the world economy and writes confessional poetry about his disappointing childhood.

His poetry has been published in MungBeing, East Jasmine Review, The Pacific Review, The Vehicle, Touch: The Journal Of Healing, Apeiron Review, and he is the recipient of the 2014 Felix Valdez Award.

He finds writing about himself in the third person to be an overtly seductive invitation to tell lies.

He once captured a French Eagle at Talavera.

Posted in blah blah blah Tagged with: