Guest Post: Jon Valenzuela

Every now and then it is correct to help a fellow out. Like a lady or gentleman of age who can only take baths, or a young lady frothing at the mouth due to amphetamine use. In both cases, assistance is required in the smallest room of the house/St Johns tent at an outdoor music festival. My father once knew a man forced to roll in a chair due to inactive legs. A man of principle and charity, my father allowed this man to let the ball bounce twice rather once in a game of tennis. The result was not suprising, but my father has always been a very capable tennis player.

The following was written by Jon Valenzuela. Jon cannot afford his own blog.

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Hugh Hefner shuffled slowly across the lobby of the Playboy Mansion, grumbling all the while. He was on his way to the kitchens in search of a plastic bag – one of the bunnies had taken a shit in the Grotto again. Normally, the mansion would be swarming with servants, all of whom would be eager to help restore the Grotto to its former glory, but it was Labour Day weekend and most had gone home to see their families, leaving a skeleton staff. Hugh didn’t mind though. Of late, he had grown tired of the endless pampering and celebrity parties. When a weed crazed Matthew McConnaughey got into a fight with a novelty lawn flamingo and had to be repeatedly tasered at the last Superbowl party, Hugh had merely sighed. His joie de vrie had fled over the last few years. The slapping of his carpet slippers on the marble floor broke the hush of the empty house.

When he reached the kitchen, Hugh stopped short. He was rarely entered this room and had forgotten the sheer size of it. Cupboards and drawers stretched into the distance under the buzz of fluorescent lights. While hardly the adventure he had hoped for, he started to methodically search for the bags. In his mind, he was on the hunt for a great treasure. He had barely made it past the first sink when Julio entered the kitchen, his broad, brown body bent double under the weight of two garbage cans. He had elected to stay at the mansion over the weekend, as most of his family was still down south, waiting for their chance to cross the Rio Grande.
“Meester ‘Efner, hwhat are joo dooin?” Julio asked, his thick Mestizo accent garbling his words. Hugh glanced up.
“Trying to find a goddamn plastic bag. Who the hell organized this kitchen?”
Julio set down the garbage cans and wandered to a drawer chosen seemingly at random. Tugging on the handle, a thick wad of plastic bags leapt out and slapped onto the ground. Julio stooped to pick them up, and then cradled them protectively to his chest.
“Hwhat joo need thees bag for? Joo need some help?” Hugh felt anger growing inside him.
“Goddamit, just give me the bags. One of the bunnies messed up the Grotto and I need to go clean up”. Julio’s placid eyes filled with good humour as he realised he had a chance to impress his employer. Maybe, after this, he could speak privately with his boss about sponsoring his sister to come up legally and work as a maid.
“Oh Meester ‘Efner, joo don’ need to worry about dat. ‘Ulio will clean de Grotto for joo. Joo go relax, drin’ some scotch.” In his mind, Julio knew that all rich men drank scotch. He hoped to try it one day.

Hugh felt the rage drain from him. He knew that Julio held him in awe for his riches – he had used the Mexican fascination with scotch to drive many Playboy imitators out of business during his sporadic trips to Mexico. To get his hands dirty would crush Julio’s spirit, and Hugh couldn’t bare the thought of another man feeling as empty as he did.
“Alright Julio, it’s fine. There is a shit in the Grotto. When I was there it was floating, but it may have sunk by now. Get it out of there and chlorinate the water.”
Julio lumbered off happily. He loved any chance to enter the Grotto. Though he had never been there during one of the famous parties, he swore to his fellow workers that during clean up, if you listened hard enough, you could still hear the slapping of ‘las tetas de las conejas”, the breasts of the Bunnies.

Hugh leaned against a kitchen counter and sighed deeply. He was the architect of his own downfall. Through his successful business practices, he had constructed the golden cage he now lived in. Oh, how he longed for the early days, when the entrepreneurial spirit filled him with vigour. He was lost in his thoughts when a crashing cacophony came from the direction of the lobby, followed by the screams of Julio.

Hurrying from the kitchen, Hugh found himself at the scene of a terrible and bizarre accident. The front doors of the Mansion lay shattered across the other side of the lobby. Twin flaming tire tracks lead in from the front lawn and ended in a snarled skid in the middle of the marble floor. Standing on top of the injured, twitching Julio was a silver car, its rear half covered in complex electronics that released wisps of steam as they cooled. Hugh recognised the car and his heartbeat quicked. The signature 80s styling of the DeLorean was interrupted as the driver’s door gullwinged open. Out stepped a gangly figure, clad in a hawaiian shirt with a lab coat over the top, his grey hair frizzing wildly around his head like a thunder cloud.
“Great Scott!” he yelled, his eyes darting around the lobby. Spotting Hugh, he rushed over to him, treading on Julio’s chest on the way. Julio breathing became shallower, and blood started to bubble from the corners of his mouth.
“Mr. Hefner, you have to come with me. The human race is in grave danger”. The man grasped Hugh by the shoulders, his wild eyes focusing on Hugh’s face.
“What is the problem?” asked Hugh.
“Mr. Hefner, in 1953 you established a magazine that would grow to encompass a world-wide empire of softcore erotica, sparking a sexual revolution that liberated millions of young men and women. However, something has gone wrong in the past. Marilyn Monroe, your first pictorial, is having second thoughts about posing. Without Playboy, sexual repression would continue unabated. The Love Generation would never exist. Eventually, sex would cease all together, bringing about the end of the human race. Mr. Hefner, this must not be allowed to happen. I need you to come back with me to 1953.”

Hugh, in one deft move, undid the belt holding his signature red dressing gown. As it fell from his shoulders, it revealed a stylish safari suit. Hugh was ready for adventure.
“Doctor Brown, let’s go.”
“Please, call me Doc” he said, beaming as they moved toward the time machine.