Filthy

Horatio writes: More on the desperate struggle for magazine aquisition, fused with with an entrepreneurial flavor that was often inextricably connected to magazine ownership back in those days.

Submitted by N. Jones, Connecticut

As a kid, nothing was harder to come upon (pun intended) that good, grade A porn. My dad's personal stash was under lock and key. My friends and I spent our days fruitlessly scheming how we could steal the latest Playboy from the local 7-11. One day, out in the woods (isn't it always out in the woods?), I stumbled upon a half-buried Playboy. Dog-eared, rotting, and reeking of moss and piss, it was love at first sight. So filthy was this treasure, that I came back with a garbage bag and tongs. Once at home, the preservation process began. Like a pimply faced, teenage Louis Leakey, I put on latex gloves, lovingly removed each page and inserted them into glad bags and re-bound the pages with Elmer's glue. After a solid month of studying my excavation in private, I sold it to a high-school junior for 5 bucks.