December 1966

the cat in the flat

Vicki stuck her nose into her Manhattan and lapped it up slowly. Chester the cat followed suit with his cup of water. They made eye contact. This date was going even better than she could have imagined. 

Vicki purred sensually, like a kitten. Chester slicked back his whiskers with the back of his paw.

Several weeks earlier, Vicki had come across Chester's profile on pussyfinder.com. She had initially sent the first message to show she was interested. Chester's owner had agreed to let him go to Vicki's flat for a playdate.

Now in her flat, sprawled on the kitchen floor, they were clearly enjoying themselves. Vicki took her index finger and scratched Chester underneath his chin. He squinted with delight and his eyes rolled backwards with pleasure. He rolled over and tenderly played with Vicki's earlobe.

Vicki giggled. It tickled. She was feeling like one smitten kitten. Moving closer towards the cat, she went in for a kiss. Their lips touched. Suddenly she screamed.

The cat got her tongue.

September 1969

chicks and beaches, you know

The girl stood there chewing her gum obnoxiously using only her back molars. Like a cracked out cow chewing its cud.

"Like, ah my gawd- you're the guy who writes that blog."

I looked up from the injured baby seagull I had been tending to. An hour earlier I found the bird struggling to stay afloat in the water, about three miles out. What was I doing three miles out in the sea you ask? Riding around on some dolphins. After I had hitched a ride back to the shore I whittled the young bird a small leg brace from piece of dried driftwood. I tied the brace to its frail leg using some dried kelp. It had been quite hungry after I applied the brace. I chewed up some of my sandwich and fed it to the young seagull chick like a mother bird would. I was pretty confident that it was going to make a full recovery. I would probably keep it as a pet. Teach it to poop on certain people. Fashion it a bird house out of a dumpster. I had decided that I would name the little chicky "Gulliver."

I nodded at the girl. "Yep. That's me."

"I read your blog like, all the time when I'm like, at the beach."

I smiled at her. "Why thank ya miss, that means a lot."

She looked at me, her bronzed face didn't move at all. Except to chew frivolously on that poor piece of gum. The poof in her hair made her brain appear larger and much more present than it really was. 

"Can you write a blog post about me?"

"Sure, if you'd give me a squirt of that Coppertone sunscreen you got there, I'd be more than happy to."

"Ok, hold out your hand."

I obliged.

[squirt]

*       *       *

The girl stood there chewing her gum obnoxiously using only her back molars. Like a cracked out cow chewing its cud.

"I just read the post. You totally wrote about that other chick way more than me, what the hell?" 

November 1963

Kent time indeed

Bonnie and Guy ignored the eerie wailing from the tsunami sirens in the distance, choosing instead to continue their bout of love-making in the sand. The ocean waves heaved silently, ominously behind them.  

The wind was really beginning to pick up when Guy finally rolled over and collapsed onto his back. They both laid there quietly, their chests heaving heavily. Bonnie released the handfuls of sand she had been clenching onto. Her tight grip had nearly turned the sand into glass.

When Guy's breathing began to subside he rolled over and rested his head on Bonnie's stomach; he looked up at her. 

"We should probably get going, sounds like a storms a-comin."

Bonnie frowned playfully. "But I want to play with Poseidon's trident some more," she teased.

Guy laughed and began to shake the sand out of his bathing suit. Suddenly Bonnie turned around and let out a terrified scream.

Guy turned to face the sea. A towering tsunami was racing towards the shore with terrifying celerity.

As they watched the wave rise up above them, they realized that they were not going to make it to safety before it reached land. 

Reaching into his pocket, Guy took out a half empty carton of Kent cigarettes. He pulled two out with his lips and offered one to Bonnie.

They both agreed that it truly was the perfect time for a Kent cigarette.

June 1966

bird brain

You were never ashamed of having a brain.

Its insatiable thirst for new knowledge.

A burning yearn to learn.

You were never ashamed of having a brain, and you wanted to feed it all that you could. Therefore, it was no surprise that when you got your first big boy paycheck you went and bought yourself a brand new encyclopedia set.

An entire encyclopedia set. A 150-pound heaping of leatherbound-brainfood. A collection of literature heavy enough to crush a cranium.

You placed it on some shelves in the living room of your apartment, amongst some ceramic busts, tiny sculptures, and miniature globes that you accrued at a garage sale. They were what an interior designer would call “smart objects.” They proudly supported your books.

And you had grand plans to read them all! A to Z; from Aztecs to Zaire.

But things didn’t go as planned. You worked long hours at your job. You got promoted. You fell in love. You were too busy learning about life to learn a little more on the side.

You moved into a new house. The books were rented out to your study. You got married, teamed up with your wife to make a kid. You teamed up again to make another another.

The study became a bedroom. The books were demoted to the basement.

And those books just sat there. For years, they collected dust bunnies. The dust bunnies fucked like bunnies and continued to grow. They soon grew to be a small colony. They even formed their own government.

Years later, you decided to have a garage sale of your own. You uncovered the books when you were going through old boxes of shit. And all of the sudden, you felt that spark. The yearn to learn it was back.

You wondered to yourself, when was the first encyclopedia created? 

You went upstairs to your computer and went to Wikipedia.com to find the answer.

You thought again.

What was I thinking that day when I bought an encyclopedia set?

You were ashamed you didn't use your brain.

ball men read playboy

Terry stretched to his left, then to his right. After both hamstrings were sufficiently loosened, he reached into his bag and pulled out a tiny little comb. He proceeded to preen both sides of his upper lip. Terry ran a hand through his hair and fluffed it up real nice.

He was now ready to chase down some tennis balls. Or provide fresh towels to the tennis players in between sets if needed.

In his younger days, Terry had been the most talented ball boy the tennis club had ever seen- his relentless hustle was unsurpassed; his acumen and agility, unprecedented. Years later, as a fully grown man, his legend continued to grow.

Only Terry was no longer a ball boy.

He was now a ball man- one of the best the game had ever seen.

    

*     *     *

After a long hard day of fulfilling the duties bestowed upon a ball man, Terry would enjoy a nice ice bath back at home, because unlike the spry and youthful ball boy of his youth, Terry would be quite sore after spending the day fetching balls and dodging serves. 

On this particular evening, Terry was soaking in the ice bath reading a Playboy when he heard his telephone ring.

He quickly got up and toweled off and hobbled downstairs before it stopped ringing. He picked up the phone.

"Hello?"

"Hello," a sultry voice responded. "Is this Terry?"

"It sure is." He stroked his mustache with his thumb and forefinger. "Can I help you?"

"Why yes, I'm hoping that you can. I got your number from the tennis club. I watched you work a couple of matches today. You were quite the impressive ball boy-"

"Ball man." Terry corrected her.

"Yes, I'm sorry, ball man. Anyways, I was calling to let you know, I just got out of the shower, and I could use a fresh towel from a strong and capable ball man."

Terry grinned as he continued to stroke his mustache. "Tell me where your court is and I'll be on my way."

Terry was the sort of man that read Playboy.

July 1970

swinging for success

As a professional golfer, Bob Lunn never won a major tournament on the Professional Golfers Association (PGA) tour. He once finished tied for third in the U.S. Open, but that is neither here nor there. 

Because where Bob Lunn truly excelled was on an entirely different kind of course, on a completely different kind of tour. 

You see, Bob Lunn was a professional swinger.

As a member of the National Association of Swinging Athletes (NASA) tour, Bob rarely finished outside of the top 3 in any swingers tournament he participated in. In his prime, it was said that Bob could "put the ball in the hole" almost effortlessly.

To continue to put it metaphorically, over the course of his career, Bob "put it in the hole" on over 377 different "courses"- a record that still stands to this day, and one that many believe will never be broken.

What was Bob's secret? 
His hair.

What was Bob's hair's secret? 
Bob Lunn used Dep for men. 

Because when your hair looks as good as the 18th green at Augusta National, you are the Master champion.

August 1969

the metamorph

As Dennis approached his Volkswagen, he noticed a pink note tucked underneath the windshield wiper. He plucked the piece of paper up and brought it closer to his face, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose to better read the handwriting on it.

Accidentally hit your car with my door by mistake and it left a little dent. It actually kind of looks like a dimple. I think it's cute!

-Kate
585-736-4573


Dennis surveyed the damage. Sure enough, clear as day, there was a noticeable dent a few inches below the right headlight.

He walked around to the front of his bug and took a step back. He looked at his car through the thick lenses of his glasses.

His car looked back at him with beady round headlights. 

Dennis continued to stare at the car. The sunlight reflecting off of the hood made him squint.

If cars could squint, the bug would have squinted from the sunlight reflecting off of the forehead beneath Dennis' receding hairline.

Dennis looked down at the note in his hand. He reread the seven digits scribed at the bottom. 

Dennis' mouth revealed a dimpled smirk. Sunlight glistened off of his retainer. He looked back up at his car.

The glistening metal bumper on his car smirked back at him encouragingly with its brand new dimple. 

nose means nose!

Introducing Consent, the newest fragrance from By George. 


A very pervasive persuasive fragrance for men.

For the man who is trying to get some.



Some sweet tender restraining order, that is.

December 1964

equestrians read playboy

There was a gentleman across the street tending to his thoroughbred. The man's name was Stud.

A young girl named Nancy stood on the opposite side. Nancy was out enjoying the beautiful early evening end of a seemingly perfect autumn day.

It didn't take long for Stud to notice the girl. He figured he had 2-1 odds of picking her up. 

He hopped up onto his horse and gave the reins a tug. "HYA!" 

Horse turned and looked at him with a long face. "You know that's completely unnecessary," he mumbled. "And you're going to have to deal with my bladder for a moment. I have to piss like a racehorse."

Stud rolled his eyes. He took out the latest issue of Playboy and patiently flipped through it as his horse emptied its bladder on the street. Eventually the stream lessened and the drizzle ceased. Stud rolled up the magazine and stuck it in back in his coat. Horse clunked across the cobblestones and over to the dame. 

"Hop on," Stud's outstretched hand beckoned the girl to join him on his noble steed. " I've made us reservations, we don't want to be late."

"Reservations? For what?" The young girl was utterly confused.

Stud buckled the snap on his horseback riding helmet and motioned towards the western horizon.

"The sunset."

Stud was the kind of man that read Playboy.

April 1965

*for best results stroke gently

TONY TOOK HIS MAN-SIZE-STICK OF DEODORANT OUT OF THE MOTHERFUCKING MEDICINE CABINET. HE RIPPED THE FUCKING TOP OFF WITH HIS MOUTH AND ROARED. HE APPLIED PRODUCT TO HIS UNDERARM WITH A MASOCHISTIC STROKE. 

It crumbled to the floor and created a man-size mess!

sad puppy eyes

Ralph was struggling mightily to light his cigarette. His hands were full of puppy. He was a dog person

A young girl watched Ralph with great amusement. Her name was Henrietta, and her wool cardigan was full of cat hair. Henrietta was a cat person. A cats person, if you will.

Henrietta went over to Ralph and grabbed his lighter. She sparked a flame and held it up to his mouth. Ralph blew out a cloud of smoke and thanked the girl.

The pups raised their heads up to Ralph and Ralph growled at the pups playfully. They licked his face and struggled to free their tails so that they could wag them violently. Looking at the dogs in the man's arms, Henrietta couldn't help but think about her pride of cats at home. 

They never liked her like that. And she spoiled them rottenly, not to mention, routinely.

There were the weekly pedicures at PediPaws. The artisanal cat food that came in mason jars. The cat nip she had shipped in from Cali once a month.  Henrietta had even converted her basement into one giant litter box that she cleaned every afternoon when her little felines took their afternoon cat nap.

And they rarely even gave her so much as a purr. Her eyes welled up. She deserved better.

Ralph looked at the girl, "you want a smoke?" He held the pack out to the girl. 

"No, thank you," Henrietta looked up at the man with big, sad, beady, teary puppy eyes. "But would you mind if I bummed a pup off you?"

November 1966

hotter than helmet

Hot didn't even begin to describe the weather outside.  Hot was maybe even the understatement of the summer. 

Stepping into the street was like stepping into the mouth of a dog. Walking uptown felt hotter than a colonoscope being guided up Satan's hellhole. 

And it smelled as though the sun had decided to dutch oven the entire city prior rising up out of bed, and ascending up over the horizon.

It was too hot even to wear a helmet whilst bicycling, as shown above.

cat lovers read Playboy

Jack had been casually strolling down main street when he happened to pass an antique shop. He stopped whistling mid-melody. Something inside the shop caught his eye. 

It wasn't an antique, mind you. It was the complete opposite- a dust-free and beautiful, living and breathing human female. 

Jack took off his sunglasses and tucked them into his pocket.  He reached into his back of tricks and pulled out some eye drops. After applying them to each cornea, he entered the store.

The bell above the door jingled as the door shut behind him. The lass he had been pursuing looked up. The two pairs of eyes looked at each other through a dusty prism of light coming in through the window.

Jack worked his way around the store. He made an effort to sniffle frequently. He slowly closed in on the girl.

"Is everything alright? Do you need help?" Jack looked up at the girl. She had an employee's name tag on. Katie.

"Hi, thanks, just looking," Jack began, distantly. He was careful to make his voice waver ever so slightly. "I'm just looking for something I c-can," he slowly began to choke on the fake pretzel of emotion in his throat, "something I can p-put my, something I can put my cat's ashes in. [SNIFF] She passed away this week and I promised that I would have her cremated and keep her ashes on her favorite windowsill."

Katie gently touched Jack's shoulder. "That is so sweet of you, I think I have just the thing for your cat, one moment," she disappeared into the back. Jack clenched his eyelids shut, squeezing out every last molecule of forced emotion.

Katie came back holding a small glass jar with a lid.

"I've lost a cat last year. I know how heartbreaking it can be. Here, this should work nicely." Brenda handed him the fragile antique.

Jack held the translucent receptacle in his hands. "Thank you, this is perfect. How much?"

"Take it, free of charge," Katie smiled.

"Wow, thank you," Jack sniffled, "a thousand times, thank you, thank you."

Kitty looked up at Jack. "What I miss most about my cat, was petting him." She slowly began petting Jack's arm. "Here, let me give you my number. If you ever feel the need to pet something, give me a call. I'm Katie. But you can call me Kitty."

He took the paper from the girl and smiled. "My name's Jack." The plan worked out even better than expected.

He waved goodbye and continued on his walk. 

Jack had never owned a cat in his life. Not a problem.

He casually strolled into a magazine store and bought the latest issue of Playboy. He would read it, then burn it, and then fill his vintage urn with it.

Naturally, Jack was the sort of man who read Playboy.

this little beetle

Doug didn't look or feel any different from the other 464 olive green VW beetles made on that particular summer's day. They had each sparkled with a German glow, and smelled as fresh as the evergreen color that they in fact were. They were all equally grateful that they hadn't been born day before. 

Yesterday's color was split pea green. 

It was June 16th, 1968 when Doug flickered his lights for the very first time. He clutched his axels then cleared his carburator with a healthy throttle. He bumped the FM dial and grinned bumper to bumper. 

He was suddenly very alive, and suddenly very ready to road rage all over the autobahn. 

Except for the fact that he was agonizingly parched. He set out towards the nearest gas station for a fill up.

Gasoline was soon trickling down his dark green exterior as he gulped down gallon after gallon. The sweet succulent perfume of the gasoline danced in Doug's fender and made his tail pipe tingle. He felt a massive burp coming on, and courteously covered it up with his horn. 

After he had more than his fill, Doug slowly rolled out of the gas station lot feeling extremely bloated and absolutely dripping with gasoline. The sun was at the trees, and the shadows were creeping across the road. Doug decided against a late night drive, and backed up into a parking spot to spend the night. He passed out with his lights on.

Doug awoke the next morning groggy, with a throbbing headache. He found himself in a strange shed, dark and dingy and covered in discarded automobile parts. Someone must have put a roofie his gasoline the day before, he reasoned to himself. 

As he cautiously crept out of the shed, he caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror. 

Doug was now bright pink. 

He looked down at his license plate.

BRB GRL.

Fabulous, Doug groaned to himself sarcastically. He sheepishly rolled out of the shed and set out for the highway. His procession out of the parking lot was greeted with a chorus of sexually harassing honks from all of the other cars at the gas station.

His odometer read 6 km. Doug's journey had only just begun.