Prude from Philadelphia Finds High Design at Playboy Mansion Pot Party

Last week, after a 3-day migraine post-hence the EroticaLA 2008 exhibition (was it the mic'd orgasm contest or the wafting fumes of cheap cherry lubricant?), the Prude from Philadelphia® finds herself wandering the grounds of Mr. Hugh Hefner's Playboy mansion, that relentless old flagship that sails the American vagina.

Q: A pot party. At the Playboy mansion. You're sober as a cement mixer. What the eff?

A: It was the 3^rd annual Marijuana Policy Project, a fundraiser and silent art auction for ballot initiatives that will halt the raids on and arrests of seriously ill people who find relief with the use of medical marijuana.

Q: Sick People. Blah! Was everyone, like, totally baked off their noodles, smoking the splim, the rope, the skunk, the sassafras, the poke, the pretendo, the pat, the pin, the Panama, the Mary Ann, the Mary Warner, the Mary and Johnny, the Loaf, the Lobo, the Greta, the Griffo, the Gash, the Gangster, the Finger, the Fir, the Fly Mexican Airlines?

A: Pot smoking was not officially permitted at the event, but it was very dark behind the monkey cage.

Q: You have yet to explain why you, a walking chastity belt, chose to attend this high-fest rather than sit home and stare at skeins of yarn.

A: I was digging for artifacts...

Q: For what? Shards of vagina?

A: Do you know that Mr. Hugh Hefner was born before the invention of the rotary telephone? That the first Playboy magazine was issued half a century ago back in 1953 and it wasn't until that year that color television was approved for use by the FCC?

Q: Blech. History is, like, so old. And eff the FCC. Show me a video. With girls in it.

A: See here in this archival footage how the art of the Playboy brand has been assiduously kept alive by grown women forever willing to wear a simulated bunny tail pinned to their asses.

Q: Don't waste my time. When's the money shot?

A: A Playboy bunny contemplates on a Japanese erotic print of a woman sexually engaged with a sea creature and its many tentacles. This narrative turn occurs after the 5 minute mark...

Q: Holy living sushi! An octopus scrambling her hoo-ha! But I want real girls. Flesh-wearing chest-heaving girls. From the party. Pictures. Lots of them.

A: This classic photo of Marilyn Monroe by Bert Stern sold at the event's silent auction for thousands of dollars more than it should have. it appears that a woman higher than the backside of Pluto kept bidding against herself.

Q: Holy baked! Her eyes are, like, all pinwheely. Got any more shots of girls, lots of them, like, together?

A: This vintage 70s era illustration should be in the Smithsonian along with Mr. Rodger's sweater.

Pinball machine display in Mr. Hefner's game room depicting his then-wife and frolickers in his notorious topless-only grotto.

Q: That's a freekin cartoon. I want to see girls sprawled out on Hef's pool table. Got any pictures of that?

A: Here. Learn.

Bookshelf in Mr. Hefner's game room, hardcovers only. "You Are What You Make Yourself" out of the "What Color is My Parachute" school of mold.

Q: Books? I'll be over here strangling myself with a condom.

A: And here, a fine collection of whore house tokens, also from his game room.

Q: I'm dead. Just go on boring my dead body, you cruel prude. Agh!

A: Ah! And here. Administration building signage circa 1970s, industry brown with white san serif typeface.

Mr. Hefner maintains a zoo of monkeys and swalking birds; from the door of the office of the Playboy mansion's zoo keeper.

Q: I beg you. One shot. Of some bunny tail. My dick is dying. Throw me a bone.

A: Here.

Q: Holy deformity! Bunnies have, like, no ass. Is there an operation for that? Anyway, I hear that Playboy bunnies are really flexible. Do they, like, work out on gymnastic equipment?

A: Indeed. Mr. Hefner has installed a set of gymnastic rings high as a trapeze behind the game house. I coerced a partygoer into demo-ing.

Q: Cute mini! You get any interior shots of her bingo?

A: Interior design! Some glorious examples. Adjacent to the pinball area, Mr. Hefner has built a ‘Cab' room that takes its inspiration from that place of ritual de-virgination for American teenagers: the backseat of a car. The room is built for comfortable coupling, totally mirrored, with a TV for adult entertainment, or, Dance Wars. The floor is extra padded and springy for bony knees. There is a half-bath for washing up the goo, and a 6-way lighting system with wood-inset taper dials. Behold the dials! Brass with hard wood inset!

Lighting panel, Cab room. ‘Niches' subtly softens ‘corners'. Art is in the transitions!

Q: Crap on a stick. There you are standing in Hef's boffing chamber and you take a picture of the freekin light switch? Show me a lady who boffed Hef in there. And show me now. Before I re-kill myself.

A: This is Kristi. She's a Playmate and official mansion tour guide. Stopping to take off the high heels that were "killing her feet", she revealed to us her status in the hierarchy: she was Mr. Hefner's girlfriend for several months in 2002.

Q: Every female on earth with godzillas like that was Mr. Hefner's girlfriend in 2002! But holy Sierra Nevada. She's magnificent. Is there a Mount Rushmore for breasts? I nominate her.

A: In fact, the blasting of Mount Rushmore was begun in 1927, the year Mr. Hefner was born...

Q: Fk your dusty facts. Any celebrities there? NOT OLD ONES. Young, zingy ones? Was it totally star-studded?

A: It was more like a ‘star-stud' event. The lone celebrity was Mr. Danny Glover, a gentle man mild as cheese.

Mr. Danny Glover, view from above. Mysteriously, he waited for the bus back to Century City just like the rest of us.

Q: He's shiny. I'll give him that. Show me something about the Playboy mansion that will blow my mind.

A: Regard! Art, as well as the genius of effective branding, is in the details...

Trash receptacle on the grounds of the Playboy mansion.

Q: God. I just realized it. You're like the sister Wendy of slutty artifacts.

A: Sister Wendy, admirable for her scholarship and insights into the history of art, has her ebullient charms, ready smile, and pristine virginal skin, but I must make mention of the fact that she is a yucky-toothed girly-nun. I, on the other hand, am a fox.