The first time I met Charlie Heston was at a thing we had at the mansion in '71. I think it was to celebrate Judy's -- she was Miss April that year I think -- big new tits. New tits were always a pretty good excuse to have a party, get the girls together, get 'em all loaded and do this great thing we all called the Boob Tube. I think we started doing that in '65, Sammy Davis Jr. told us how to do it. He said to me, "Imagine, my man, that you could shrink down small enough to where you could squeeze through your own intestine. Now, daddy-o, imagine that your intestine is made of tits."

Well, that was it for me.

We'd have 'em all, all the girls, stand in two rows, facing each other so that their pebbles were just touching. And the short ones would all stand on tip-toes or crates and the leggy ones would crouch down a bit so that all the tits were at roughly the same height. We'd oil 'em all up beforehand, of course. Then, one by one, the guys would all run through the tit gauntlet, miles of oily knockers just making the most amazing goddamn noise as they're slapping against our faces, and at the other side of the tunnel it's just a heap of guys laying on the ground with tit-eating grins all over their oil-soaked faces.

So at this particular party, we had this one guy there, a guy I had never seen before, some actor from a movie about space monkeys or what-have-you, and somebody introduced us. After about a minute and a half, I realized that I didn't particularly care for him because he said he was conservative and an ass man; I'm a lefty and I think that the prospect of fondling a good pair of firm, glistening, juicy tits is the only good damn reason to get up every morning. I asked him if he'd had any good monkey butt lately. He grimaced and walked away.

I figured that would be the last I'd see of him.

About four hours later, I'm high as a kite, and some big, burly, hairy, sexy guy yells, "Hey, Hef! We're Tubin'!" And I look over and sure enough, there's Burt Reynolds, bucket full of jelly in one hand, goddamn industrial-sized paintbrush in the other, and he's walking up and down the line of girls, smothering their hogs in the stuff.

Of course I don't need any urging , so I proceed to run headlong through Tit Canyon, just screaming with euphoria at the great, writhing ocean of funbags spread out before me.

I'm about halfway through the Boob Tube, and damn it all, whose face do I see push its way through a phenomenal pair of Brazilian double-Ds not ten feet in front of me, but Charlie Fuckin' Heston, just sopped in jelly, with this maniacal look on his face like he's going to bite every boob in the whole goddamn mansion, and he's screaming "Here comes the Tit Shark! Watch out for the Tit Shark!"

The son of a bitch had entered the tube the wrong side!

A moment later, were both trapped beneath a sixty-tit pileup. When David Keith finally pulled us out an hour and a half later, we had both nearly asphyxiated. Not because there was a lack of oxygen, but just a gross excess of tits. Our mouths were just so full.

Later, poolside, after the paramedics had left and the girls were around back getting the jelly and booze and various other liquids hosed off, Charlie is sitting on a chaise lounge, and he takes his respirator off to take a sip of his rum punch, and he turns to me with this look on his face and wheezes, "You made a tit man out of me." I told him, "Welcome to the first day of the rest of your life."

And Charlie grinned that big beautiful grin of his, like he knew it was God's honest truth. Nobody's going to miss the Tit Shark more than me.