Monday, February 08, 2010

Bunny Tales: Behind Closed Doors At The Playboy Mansion - Isabella St. James
Running Press

'We often wonder why he did it at all. Why bother with this whole charade?' - from the wisdom of St. James

Well, well, well I'll be damned if I don't avow this erstwhile book of latent revelation about as well, as rip-roaringly titillating as the author herself as she happily pleasures herself on a high-horse some heroin-addled higher power divined she could hop along on. It may be of little surprise that this is a tawdry little cash-in, but she could at least have given it to someone to write who was funny, to lighten the intergalactic vacuity and patronising patter ('you'd be surprised how many girls we met who, inside two minutes, would want to come home with us'. Scuse me while I burst, m'dear). Guess she didn't manage to procure such contacts through her martyr like time as moral medusa of the Malibu nirvana. It's not like anyone's gonna expect The Dirt, or even News of the World / National Enquirer, amid choruses of oooh I always imagined what might go on chez Hef, please tell me? At first I chuckled at the 'oh of course you went to law school, that is why you entertainingly, sorry, educationallitically put quotes from Milton and writers from long ago which have even longerer names and stuff atop the chapters', then after the requisite three-to-five seconds it clicks like a Belfast kneecapping. Strong in you the lawyer instinct is. Grab money off old Hef while you can then pitch a bitch cat-calling tell-some under the guise of oooh I'd not really want to but since you ask - it was all them other nasty trashy girls. Sure, Hefner may be a deluded old rich guy living out geek fantasies but she's proof that that ain't exactly, or partly, all it's cracked up to be behind the facade, which she frequently pretends to be startled about. I mean, haul me to court with a surgeons scalpel pointed someplace perilous but our Polish/Canadian (NOT American, as she keeps reminding us, cos, like she's cultured and shit) pouting poultry resembles Vince Neil been shoved through the back-end of one of her precious little pug dogs (and yes, who paid for them puppies, huh?). Unsurprisingly a far sadder depiction of a self-satisfied little princess than an aging lothario, whether of the hype or the hang. Should you be suitably arsed either way. Though if it gets you through the Sunday late shift it's worth it near the end for her exchange with Hugh that precipitated her departure when after as painstakingly as possible depicting herself as the tough, headstrong heroine she bursts into tears and screeches 'You always choose their side'. Ace, I'm off to get a Melrose Place box-set. Taraaa.
Stu Gibson

1 comment:

奇怪 said...


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