As you may have heard, Shark Week kicks off Sunday on the Discovery Channel. The seven days of (decreasingly) informative marine documentaries and (increasingly) lurid reenactments of REAL LIFE ATTACKS and exposing DEADLY WATERS and what not provide a welcome break from a programming slate otherwise crammed with American Chopper and Gold Rush: Alaska marathons.
Shows apparently designed to help us "discover" our inner mustachioed biker/fortune hunter, respectively.
Art Attack has already gotten the jump on toothy ocean carnivore coverage, and I was all set to join in with a brief yet thoughtful exploration of my own lifelong love/hate history with sharks.
And then Hugh Hefner popped up in the news again. I know the two may seem unrelated, but bear with me here.
I've been obsessed with sharks since I was a kid. I wasn't actually allowed to go see Jaws when it was in theaters (being all of six years old when it came out), but I grilled my mother on the movie the day after she saw it, making her describe every attack in heart-rending detail (Pippet!). That helped tide me over until she took me to see Jaws 2 three years later.
In the interim, there were books (I probably checked out every shark-related tome from our local library) and those wonderful, terrible magazines that made it sound like merely setting foot in the water was akin to smothering yourself in BBQ sauce and climbing the fence around the lion pen.
There's more to it: my dad terrorizing me in the bathtub by turning out the lights and screaming to "look out for the shark!" (he assumed because we lived in Utah I'd have figured out there wasn't actually a shark in the tub...he assumed wrong), or seeing Jaws 3-D opening weekend, or actually spotting a shark while snorkeling in Aruba and not freaking out. But it all fades to (greater) insignificance when I see news like the following:
His runaway bride dissed his bedroom abilities -- but Hugh Hefner isn't taking the insults lying down.
After ex-fiancée Crystal Harris told Howard Stern that sex with the 85-year-old Playboy founder lasted "like two seconds" on Tuesday's show, Hefner retaliated: That's not the case, he says.
"Crystal lied about our relationship on Howard Stern but I don't know why," Hef tweeted Tuesday night, although he has since removed the message from his account. "Maybe a new boyfriend?" [...] Although insisting that he is "pro-Crystal," Hefner said he's "happy to be in a better place with new girlfriends Anna Sophia Berglund & Shera Bechard."
I'm not sure what Hef is so upset about: he's an octogenarian that still has women six decades younger willing (contingent on getting a Playboy cover, I surmise) to share his bed. Who cares if he "only" lasts two seconds? Whether you admire the guy or have no use for him and his ever-growing army of living Real Dolls, most 85-year old dudes would trade places with him in a heartbeat.
Speaking personally, I side with the latter argument, mostly because I find him greedy - Barbi Benton *and* Shannon Tweed? - and I'm jealous of anyone who can spend the day in his pajamas and not get called a deadbeat for it by an ungrateful wife who doesn't realize some days you just need to drink Keystone Light and watch 20 episodes of NewsRadio.
And this is now the second time this year details of Hef's bed habits have had us, as a nation, reaching for our collective airsick bags (the first, you'll recall, outlined what passes for an orgy at the Mansion). Frankly, that's two too many. Hef needs to go, before former girlfriends start Tweeting about his bowel movements or what's it like to watch him chew food.
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It was while pondering how to get rid of the man that I remembered the sage words of Bill Hicks:
By gum, it's perfect! I mean, Norris is so lethal he's basically a perfect killing machine...why not up the ante and feed Hef directly to a great white for Shark Week? Cross-promote it with the Playboy Channel (is that still around?) and promote the shit out of it for the whole month beforehand. How the Discovery Channel wants to "execute" the big moment - either by dropping him into a feeding frenzy or dangling him above the water for one of those awesome "flying shark" shots - is up to them.
After all, I trust the people who drew out the agonizing death of Capt. Phil Harris implicity.