Email received at The American Jerk Home Office this morning from Gariana at Popcorn Mafia:
Me & Grae were invited to the Playboy Mansion on Saturday. I will strip down naked and swim in the grotto. I owe it to you and every guy that ever held their own penis in their hand screaming the fake name of some dull-eyed coked up 19 year old that had to let Hef diddle her just so she could be in the magazine! I OWE IT TO AMERICA!
–The G
A good plan, Gariana, but come on: I know from personal experience that you and Grae are warriors, and can top this plan. So go get a pen, and write this down, because you don’t have much time.
Go to a drugstore and get an old-school Mead composition notebook (You can get one here, but you’ll have to get it overnighted). Accept no substitutes; no other notebook simultaneously projects the “childish writing” and “John Doe from Seven” vibe you’re going to want for this project.
Now go here and order the Playboy Bunny logo rhinestone t-shirt… and get it three sizes too big, because you’re going to wash it was a shitload of bleach, dry it on Nuclear with a bunch of rocks in the machine, and pick about one of every ten rhinestones out of the logo. The point is to make it look well-worn, like it’s seen a lot of miles on your back. Don’t forget to scrawl, say, three autograph-style scribbles in black Sharpie thick and dark enough to survive the bleach.
Once the shirt’s ready, go to your bathroom mirror and practice clutching the notebook to you like a security blanket while breathing through your mouth and not blinking. You’ve been to Comic-Con, so you should know what look you’re going for here: a socially maladjusted teenaged borderline-Asperger’s case with an obsession with obscure manga magazines… only your obsession is with Playboy magazines.
Got the look down? Good. Now go to this database of playmates, and cross reference it with this database of playmates statistics (For most people it’s not safe for work, but if anyone’s paying attention to what the projectionist is doing, it’s because you’re showing Tyler Perry or some other infinitely boring horseshit, so you should be fine). In your notebook, take down:
- Month and year they were centerfolds
- Hair color, height and measurements
- Turn-Ons and Turn-Offs
- and most importantly: cause of death.
After arriving at the Mansion, have Grae stand eight or ten feet back while you approach women at random from the rear and tap them sharply and repeatedly on the shoulder until you get their attention. Then look them dead in the eyes and say something like: “You remind me a lot of Star Stowe, Playmate of the month February 1977, Blonde, 5′ 6″, turn-ons: going to concerts and riding in a limo, turn offs: guys who come on too strong and get grabby… found raped and murdered by a serial killer of street whores in some bushes in Fort Lauderdale on March 16, 1997.”
Then just lock them with that unblinking stare until Grae can hurry over, take you by the arm, say, “Sorry, she just loves Playboy. She’s… harmless,” and gently pull you away. Videotape and repeat until bored or Hef gets involved.
If Hef does get involved, just hit him with that unblinking gaze… until Grae calls him “Mr. Flynt.” Then wail like a retard who’s dropped his ice cream sandwich into an anthill and fake a seizure… because trust me: at this point you’d much rather have medical intervention than police involvement.
Have fun, good luck, and most importantly: keep my fucking name out of it.
Okay,
Rob
[tags]Playboy mansion, Playmates, dark humor, satire[/tags]
