Bob Guccione, founder of Penthouse, died last week at the age of 79. I had a posthumous chat with the porn magnate.
Me: Thank you for taking the time, Mr. Guccione.
BG: No problem! Anything to please a male fan and take a little attention away from Hefner.
Me: I have to thank you for exposing me at a young age to a detailed look at the female vagina.
BG: That brings a tear to my eye. With the Internet reducing magazine readership so much, it’s nice to hear a story of a child who was actually reading for once.
Me: Well, it was less reading and more shock and awe combined with relentless masturbation at the age of 9.
BG: That’s my boy!
Me: In fact, I actually have a quick story to share, if that’s okay.
Me: Well, in college, there was this really beautiful girl who lived across the path from me in a separate dorm. She always left her blinds open just a tiny little bit, and would get undressed right in front of the opening.
One day, I worked up the nerve to walk over to her room. I knocked on the door, and she answered, wearing only a towel, her hair still wet from the shower. “Can I help you?” she asked, with a coy smile.
“Umm,” I stammered, ” I just wanted to let you know that your curtains don’t close all the way, and you may want to be careful, because anybody can see you.”
“Tee hee,” her giggle was infectious, “did you like my show, Adam?”
“How did you know my name?”
BG: Cut the bullshit.
Me: What? This is real!
BG: I gotta tell you, in more than forty years of running Penthouse, we got hundreds of thousands of letters just like that. I got a nose for this, and I know when one is fake and one is real.
Me: So you’re saying that the “Letters to Penthouse” you published were all real?
BG: Oh, fuck no! The real ones were all boring! Do you really think that there’s some traveling salesman out there who ends up in a threesome with two models who don’t have anything to do on a Friday night?
Me: I guess not.
BG: I’m sorry, kid. I hope I didn’t disappoint you too much.
Me: Well, I have to be honest. My whole life I looked up to those letters as if they were gospel. I just figured that if I was in the right place at the right time, it was inevitable, and then I could finally write my own Letter to Penthouse.
BG: Aww, that’s too bad. Well, what was the truth behind what you was tellin’ me?
Me: It wasn’t anything close to that.
BG: So, tell me!
Me: It was a guy who liked to shine a flashlight in my dorm window and jerk off in his window. Then he stuck a post-it note on my window and asked me to come visit him.
BG: Oh jeez.
Me: Yeah, see? That’s why I really needed those letters to Penthouse to be real. I *sniff* need that type *sniff* of reality.
BG: Come to Uncle Bob. It’s okay.
Me: I’m not sitting on your lap. You’re only wearing a robe. And you don’t have it closed. Dear God, why aren’t you wearing anything under your robe?
BG: Because I’m Bob Fucking Guccione, that’s why!
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