So, the other day, when I wrote my plaintive wail about being sad and shit, I really was planning taking a few days off to collect my thoughts, set my head straight, and dive back into this blogging thing with renewed vigor.
Then, I learned that Lilu was hanging up the TMI Thursday shenanigans, so I felt compelled to write up yesterday's story to honor and thank her for her tireless service in the realm of bodily secretion stories. Apparently, after writing that particular piece, I have to write a Latin Lesson so that I can hide my shame when it comes to my story from yesterday.
Valuable lesson: tell a story about jerking off to your cousin's fine breasts, everyone applauds you. Get snowballed and you're a disgusting pig.
God, I love you people. Honestly. You bring a lot of joy to my life. For reals.
Have I washed the scent of sarcasm off that interjection yet? Good. Let's continue.
Anyway, the thing that sparked my desire to write a Latin lesson this morning is that, today, April 9th, is the birthday of a cultural icon in America. That's right, it's Hugh Hefner's birthday today. The alliterative master of nude girls is 84 today.
I've already given you a few stories revolving around Playboy, so I won't go into that again. Just suffice it to say that, like so many other young men in America, Playboy was the pinnacle of illicit wonder growing up. It was dirty enough to hide between the mattresses or in the bottom of your sock drawer, but it was also austere enough that you could gain a level of respect and street cred just by having a recent edition (preferably without the pages stuck together).
Nowadays, though, with the rise of the internet, we don't need the stroke books as much. We can turn to the nebulous ether that is the internet for those few times--not often, but sometimes--when you like the idea of a chick with a horse.
It's a line from Chasing Amy. Don't get your panties in a knot. I'm using it for effect.
Anyway, we're here to celebrate Hugh and his timeless, withered ability to land a new hot blonde chick every few years. Let us raise our glasses and salute the master of the centerfold:
Pronounced: "O Sen-ex im-myoon-day, kwoh-moh-doh tay ah-moh!"
And, when the candles are blown out and the cake has been cut and served and the dancing starts back up and we've gorged ourselves on ice cream, we can ask him this:
Pronounced: "Hob-ays-nay all-ee-kwahs poo-ay-loss soob-say-kee-wahs coom cah-pee-loh flah-woe toom may coh-moh-darr-ace?"
So, thanks again to everyone who offered up some kind words to me on Wednesday. I was in a deep, deep funk. I think I've recovered some from it. All the ass-grabbing and shoulder-punching helped out tremendously.
Although, a few of Hugh's cast offs would also probably help to ease the pain...