Tuesday, September 05, 2006

 




Fran Gerard, Playboy Playmate of March, 1967. I scoured the net to find some info about her but could only find her responses to the shallow, banal questions that the magazine probes her with in order to slap together one of those fascinating profiles on the opposite side of her centerfold. Her ambitions: “I’d like to get into modeling or movies.” With the exception of posing for Playboy, it looks like she didn’t have much success with those endeavors. Her turnoffs: “People and their trivial problems”. Miss congeniality. Her favorite book: “The Magic of Believing”. That book must have topped the New York Times bestsellers list of that era. People she admires: “My parents”. Does she know how to spell “cliché”? In addition, she enjoys “astrology”. By the way, I went to an astrologer a few times. They are just glorified palm readers.

She was born in 1948, which essentially makes her another GILF. What the hell is my problem? It seems like I have showcased only decrepit, old women lately. It must be an Oedipal thing. Anyway, I try to just focus on how they looked then.

I like her pictures because she looks nerdy wearing horn-rimmed glasses, thus making her look all smart ‘n shit. Plus, she has a swarthiness about her. She could have southern European heritage, which is a total turn-on for me. I find passionate southern Europeans to be totally exotic and sexy. They are also good breeders, or so I have read. The only minus is that they tend to be hairy. Also, I don’t like Fran’s (Fran?! What kind of name is that?) large, dark, aureolas. They looked like oversized slices of salami.

So, anyway, I moved into my new apartment. I think that I can guarantee with almost 98% certainty that it is pretty much the coolest thing in existence. It is a perfect size for me and is low-maintenance. It has plenty of widows. I have total privacy and I don’t have to deal with annoying roommates. I have cable & internet access. It’s dirt cheap. It is in an awesome, wholesome, safe area. There is a shitty, yet workable workout room. The whole shabang. Who could ask for anything more? The only minus is that it doesn’t have air conditioning, but that crisis can be averted with the help of my trusty, old fan. Buh-bye.

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