Last Sunday, Comedy Central, the only cable television network to make 22 million dollars thanks to talking poop, aired the New York Friars’ Club Roast of Hugh M. Hefner. It was a momentous occasion not just for the man who gave the world totally nude women that can easily be folded into three sections and hidden under mattresses for personal convenience, but also for the network that aired the event, the people that attended it, the band the played the music for it, the busboys that cleaned the table for it, the caterers that served the food for it and the janitor who puts the urinal cakes in the Men’s’ room urinals for it.

But out of all the people who were on hand for this festive and historic milestone in the history of half-rate cable TV entertainment, the comics on the dais definitely get the Best in Show trophy for historical momentousness. Every eye in the room is on each of the scheduled speakers as they step up to the podium to physically rip the man of the hour apart with his or her bare hands. And yet, ironically, as they stand up there on stage, the audience too is roasting them. They know that no matter how funny their material is or how congenial they can be, if the audience smells fear, then they’ll pounce on them at a moment’s notice like a raw twelve-ounce steak dipped in fresh ram’s blood being thrown into a raptor cage.

And that’s why I desperately want to be a roaster at one of these events. Sure the audience is as bloodthirsty as a kid with a ten-dollar roll of quarters playing Mortal Kombat while eating a rare cheeseburger and the pay is probably lower than Jimmy Hoffa’s body, but where else in the world do you get to verbally rip on a national treasure in public with no inhibitions for their feelings whatsoever other than one of my family reunions after I’ve had a couple of beers.

So here’s my own unfortunately censored submission for a roast if I had been lucky enough to be on the dais for that historic comedy event of the year. I know that it’s a month late, but if you are a member of the Friars’ Club, you own a time machine and you find my little rant roast funny, let’s do lunch at Spago’s next week. I’m free on Friday.

“Hello everyone and thanks for that rousing round of applause. That was really, really great, the money is under your seats.

Now, I’d like to turn my attention to the man of the hour, Mr. Hugh M. Hefner, and what a man he is – he’s an accomplished writer, marketer, publisher and lover. And I f*#&ing hate his god$^*($, porn peddling guts.

Now I know that sounds kind of weird admitting that I hate Hugh Hefner with the vengeance of a third Die Hard movie, but it’s true and it’s not for the moralistic high road reason that all those Starbucks coffee drinking, hemp wearing, protest placard carrying liberals would have against pornography because they think it’s lewd, objective towards women and too bulky to hide. I love naked women, and I love Playboy Magazine but that doesn’t automatically mean that I’m an admirer of ol’ Hef here. Does it make sense to idolize a guy that at the ripe old age of prehistoric Stegosaurus crap has seven steady stunning girlfriends at the same time when I can’t get one mildly ugly looking one with at least all of their limbs intact?

Who in their right, frigging mind would admit that they like Hugh Hefner for Hugh Hefner himself? Well there was the one guy from San Quentin back in 1987, but he’s dead now. Turns out that you shouldn’t leave your diary sitting around open for your cellmate, Big Meat, to read it when you’re getting your weekly cavity search.

Admitting that you admire Hugh Hefner because he sleeps with and gets to see overly attractive women everyday of his applesauce gumming life is like admitting that you subscribe to US News & World Report for the pictures of Orrin Hatch.

And everyone’s so puzzled as to how he can keep all these amazing women around him twenty four hours a day. That’s easy, this guy takes enough Viagra to give Walter Matthau a stiffy, and that’s the condition that he’s in right now.

So to sum up here, seriously, I must admit that Hugh Hefner is an American icon that may be admired by millions of horny young adolescent boys with the testosterone level of a Cowboys running back after his morning horse tranquilizer protein shake, and he is someone who’s changed the image of the American male over the years from a comb carrying, girl avoiding goody two shoes to a suave, martini glass swilling, girl avoiding lounge swinger, but that doesn’t mean I won’t be waiting for your pill popping ass in the parking lot. Thank you, good night.”