All In/All Out: Anything But Another Typical Stiff At The Playboy Mansion

Funny story written by John Peurach

Monday, 8 November 2010


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HE WOOD IF HE COULD: Playboy Mansion security photo of soon-to-be-dead naked man before his big sleep finally arrived.

LOS ANGELES - LAPD units responding to a 911 call from the famed Playboy Mansion in LA's perpetual ritz-proof conclave of Holmby Hills, were greeted with more than their usual customary brand of semi-gruesome stiff-on-the-scene discovery when they arrived there this past Friday night.

All of which was made somewhat even more unpleasant (to say nothing of confusing) once it appeared that none of the 35 half-naked houseguests there at the mansion, already well into playing Trivial Pursuit in the rather palatial first floor library, were aware that a 911 call had been placed from the premises, due to the possibility that a homicide may have occurred there, or had been recently discovered during yet another evening of otherwise hedonistic frivolity.

Things subsequently took an even more bizarre turn for the worse once authorities located James Caan and House Bunny #17 (newly-arrived Brenda Fern Leventhal from West Orange, New Jersey) in the mansion's rather well-appointed state-of-the-art entertainment center rumpus room, attempting to enjoy what had obviously become something of a trying, and altogether disheartening, after hours viewing of "El Dorado" simultaneously on an estimated 8 HDTV flat screens, which were each equipped with a confusing mix of both surround sound and, surprisingly enough, a rather festive loop of standard issue Bollywood music.

According to LAPD spokesperson, Lt. Ray Wakahomi, the situation already in progress with Mr. Caan and Ms. Bunny #17 was anything but a pretty sight.

"Apparently, Mr. Caan was well past his usual Friday night 'high wire without a net' distress level," said Lt. Wakahomi. "And not just because Ms. Bunny #17 had seen fit to repeatedly ask if that was him every time his "El Dorado" co-star Arthur Hunnicutt shuffled his way across all of the wide flat screens encircling their impromptu love nest. Which, upon further review, turned out to be a world class snooker table, under which actor/comedian Lenny Clarke was decidedly passed out in the somewhat comfy process of utilizing the ample rump of Porn Queen Carmella Bing as a pillow."

"Needless to say," continued Lt. Wakahomi, "Mr. Caan had become noticeably perplexed that his young effervescent companion had no clue that he was Buddy The Elf's dad, and was even less impressed that he had once been nominated for a Best Supporting Actor Oscar years ago, primarily for nailing some other guy's wife up against a bedroom door during a wedding reception, and, oh yeah, seriously not surviving a successful and seemingly well deserved clip job at a perfectly nondescript Long Island toll booth in a little something called 'The Godfather'."

As for Mr. Clarke and Ms. Bing, once LAPD crime scene photographers got a few good shots of them snoozing, they were both properly awakened, and each quickly served a hot cup of cocoa, plus whatever overly fruity beverage it was that Mr. Caan claimed to now be too dizzy to further consume.

Thankfully, LAPD officers searching the Playboy mansion soon located the person who apparently made the 911 distress call, longtime Friday Night/Saturday Morning House Boy, Blaine Wayne, who, at the time, was busy as can be deep inside the mansion's stately kitchen quarters hastily preparing a midnight snack of oysters, gummy bears, Alpha-Bets, heavily stuffed bear claws, matzo ball soup, an extra-extra-large Greek salad, plus several roll away antique bathtubs stocked well above their collective ornate brims with plenty of Pepsi on ice, all for the low rent gourmet cravings of the nightly roster of already situated guests, as well as for any of those among the ever-growing squad of mostly poker-faced law enforcement personnel who were then otherwise responsible for carrying out their ongoing investigation, and, for the moment anyway, in desperate need of something approaching a light late night pick-me-up snack.

"It was the least I could do since, well, Friday night is, after all, as always, party night around here," said Mr. Wayne. "And, even though it's probably a wee bit wiser to scope out what I was unfortunately doomed to trip over, on something approaching an empty stomach - especially for those entrusted with performing hands-on chores for the fuzz - I couldn't resist, and therefore figured, why not try and make the best of a bad situation. Which is, more or less, my traditional job description role around here whenever things go well past the usual haywire. Although, as a rule, until now that pretty much has been limited to whenever Viagra-induced kickstands remain fully cocked and loaded well beyond their standard recommended, hopefully well-traveled, attaboy, true value time."

Meanwhile, once the late night feast was served, a plus-size robe (not used by anyone since the late Sonny Liston back in the good old days when Chicago was still the ground-zero locale for such all night psycho-sexual high jinx) was secured to conceal most of what has on full display of Ms. Bing's otherwise eye-catching charms, and Nedley Amoroso, the technician in charge of monitoring mansion owner Hugh Hefner's sleep/isolation flotation tank, was notified of what was going down (just in case it ever came to a point during the investigation that the lost in deep sleep Playboy founder was to be otherwise disturbed from his nightly, medically recommended, 8 to 10 hour slumber) authorities were promptly led by Mr. Wayne to a nearby area along the mansion's east side property boundary line, which apparently contained what had prompted his breathless 911 call earlier in the evening.

"What we found there, much to clearly no one's surprise was a stiff," Lt. Wakahomi explained to TV reporters and assorted TMZ flunkies, once situations had, at long last been sorted out, and a reasonable timeline had been established. "Only this time a little more than the usual, since the unreasonably rigid item in question was still otherwise fully attached to an unidentified naked man in his mid-40's who, besides still really, really smiling, was clearly dead."

"As far as we can tell at this point, all indications seem to suggest that, rather than foul play, the unidentified deceased naked man in question may have possibly been a victim of a sudden cardiac arrest," continued Lt. Wakahomi. "Which, from our vantage point, seems all the more likely, since he was found underneath a shielded area of the Playboy mansion property that, surprisingly enough was not equipped with any sort of security fence, but rather a lengthy, poorly trimmed bougainvillea, which, during a highly questionable and ill-advisable moment, or two, according to several eyewitnesses, the unidentified deceased naked man appears to have attempted to either scale, or negotiate his way through, in order to take a quick dip in the neighbor's somewhat alluring vagina-shaped swimming pool."

Despite the immediate rush to judgment by overanxious news hounds on the scene, who felt the need to quickly speculate that the unidentified man might in fact be well known strange but true flake prone actor Crispin Glover, who reportedly had been seen earlier in the night outfitted in only a tube sock that apparently concealed neither of his size 10's, attempting to purchase a 12-pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer, three bags of marshmallows, and two jumbo packs of D batteries at a West Hollywood convenience store, Lt. Wakahomi reassured those milling about the edge of the mansion's legendary grotto that since Mr. Glover is well known to have at least the first two of poet John Berryman's prize-winning Dream Songs tattooed to his upper torso, there's no way he could be the alleged unidentified dead victim here, since he in fact was obviously sporting a rather elaborate tattoo of longtime comic actress Ruth Buzzi (from her "Laugh-In" days as the Gladys Ormphby character) that due no doubt to the longer than usual progress of time was was stretched out accordingly all across the somewhat sizable girth of his altogether distended unsightly abdominal region.

"Adding a little bit of unnecessary confusion to our investigation was the fact that, while the rather pronounced business end of the unidentified dead man clearly remained within the property line of the Playboy mansion, everything else about his person had apparently crash landed in the yard next door," said Lt. Wakamomi. "This, of course, necessitated that we notify the occupants of the neighboring palatial Gothic structure to alert them as to the progress of our ongoing investigation, and the possibility that whoever was there might be included in any down the line police inquires, insurance considerations and/or future situations centered around landscaping issues that undoubtedly will be addressed at a later date."

Surprisingly enough, the current resident of the house next door was, in fact, Ruth Buzzi, who was there house sitting as a favor for her good friend Marty Ingels, the semi-tolerated actor, comedian, talent agent who has long been married to Academy Award-winning actress Shirley Jones.

According to Ms. Buzzi, "Marty and Shirley are away visiting family and friends in Delray Beach, Florida. While I'm still here, more or less, all the time, trying to get either Lily Tomlin or "Laugh-In" producer George Schlatter on the phone."

Meanwhile, as an illustration of just how small this entertainment industry town really is, it was subsequently reported buy authorities and several quick-thinking TMZ staffers, that Crispin Glover once took a four-week acting class that was taught by Marty Ingels in the backroom of The Apple Pan restaurant in West Los Angeles, during a rather lean moment in time in the late 70's, when it seems both Glover and Ingels were seeing the same therapist and each found themselves otherwise employed as her weekend exotically attired cabana boys in lieu of a lengthy series of unpaid service fees.

As for the unidentified deceased naked man, it's anyone's guess. But, given the sometimes overlapping connections made within the loosely structured tight knit framework of this forever hopeful, yet, entirely bottom line town, it's a good bet that strategic portions of his now officially late for any sort of party carriage, had, during his alive and swell days (especially when in full bloom mode) traveled many a hard, and hopefully consenting adult, his and her mile, long before he was ready for his final fade-out close-up.

In stereo, where available.

Or, so the police, and the honks at TMZ, said.


The funny story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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