Playboy Just Dry Humped My Sex Drive

Union Cane

Word on the 6 o’clock news is Playboy Magazine has decided to stop publishing naked photos of women after more than six decades of revolutionizing the way lonely, mom-living hornballs rubbed one out in the privacy of their father’s game room.
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What’s next? A telephone I can use outside of my home? A black president?

Oliver Wendell Holmes once said, “Life is an end in itself, and the only question as to whether it is worth living is whether you have had enough of it.”

Mine has officially run its course.

The news of Playboy closing its soft, silky curtains hit me hard and left me flaccid. There was a not a dry eye or greased palm in the house.

Where do we go from here? How else am I supposed to unwind after a long day at the shipyard and fulfill my masturbatorial fantasies without having to make eye contact with my wife? What am I supposed to do now? Role play?

This is a major dry hump to the sex industry. Young, voluptuous women everywhere now need a new outlet to self-promote and share photos of themselves in provocative poses aided and assisted by deceptive angles and semi-professional lighting effects. The future of celebrity worship is in serious peril, too, unless you expect famous models and actresses to take their own naked photos and then carelessly leave them unattended to in a photo album.

How, pray tell, are they supposed to do that? Turn the Polaroid around and point it at themselves? Furthermore, since when do women of such class and principle ever feel the need to chase the unsolicited attention of others? Dream on, losers. Rid this world of Playboy photographers and you might as well take away our right to bear arms, too. Thank goodness we don’t live in a world that reactionary.

If only there was a way to consolidate every pornographic image, both soft and hardcore, shrink them down to the size of a small coin and file them categorically for future use on a convenient, easily-accessible unit large enough to stash everything you need, but small enough to fit on your lap or the top of a desk. If that same apparatus could feed me stock quotes, provide fall fashion tips, and reveal the who’s who among college football’s Top 25, I’d never have to stop at the newsstand on the way home from work ever again.

At this rate, I’ll have to buy six, maybe seven, different magazines to supplement all the information absorbed from one issue of Playboy. It’s like eating 12 bowls of Shredded Wheat to get your daily intake of vitamins and iron instead of just eating one bowl of Total.

Until that day comes, men like myself will be forced to use their imagination to feed the beast and quench the undeniable thirst beneath their bubbling cauldron of denim and polyester. Don’t bother consoling me. I don’t need a shoulder to cry on. I need an opaque, shrink-wrapped package to tear open once a month.

To paraphrase R.E.M., whose new cassette should be available at Sam Goody sometime this week, “It’s the end of the world as we know it.”
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If you need me, I’ll be at the mailbox waiting for this week’s Glamour.