Deep down in the dark recesses of even the most enlightened man’s heart, there exists a sliver of feeling that traveling the country getting drunk with nubile half-naked co-eds wouldn’t be such a bad gig. Thankfully, Joe Francis stands as a living example of the dire consequences of this path. There was a time in this country when dirty picture peddlers had some class. Hugh Hefner may have become a polyamorous old coot, but at least he was into jazz and Playboy had (has?) some merit as an actual magazine; Bob Guccione, despite his resemblance to Maury Sline, had a grand (if hilariously misguided) artistic vision; and Larry Flynt, for better or worse, became an icon of free speech. Who is our generation’s answer to these sultans of smut, these titans of twat? Joe fucking Francis.
The best thing we can say about Mr. Francis is that he serves as a constant reminder to the parents of America to hug their sons and raise their daughters up smart. Never has a person been able to make living 98% of Maxim magazine readers’ dream life look so desperate and sad. We almost feel bad writing this because Mr. Francis seems like the kind of fellow who Googles himself 20 times a day and might stumble upon this post. Almost. What we would really like to do is make Mr. Francis spend a few hours in a room with a sharp lady who speaks in complete sentences. We imagine that after his offers of Jaeger bombs were declined and attempts to lure her out of her clothes with promises of t-shirts and an all-expenses paid trip to GGW Island didn’t work, he would probably curl up on the ground and start sobbing. Sadly, this option is not on the table so we will settle for punching Mr. Francis in the face.