The economy has hit a lot of people hard, but I’ve got to say that I don’t think we’ve heard yet about just how badly these terrible recessionary conditions have been on Playboy. For this may be the only explanation as to why the House of Hef has figured so prominently in recent comedies The House Bunny and now Miss March. I know Larry Flynt was looking for a government bailout, but it seems Hugh Hefner has found his own by whoring out the Playboy name (pardon the innuendos and impositions) to any producer that can sign their name on a cheque.

Miss March comes from a couple of guys you’ve probably never heard of: Zach Cregger and Trevor Moore. Not only did Cregger and Moore write and direct the film, but they’re also the two leads, Eugene and Tucker, respectively. Eugene spent two years in high school dating Cindi (Raquel Alessi) while resisting their throbbing, animal urges. But on Prom Night Cindi says that they should throw abstinence out the window, and despite reservations, Eugene intends to oblige. But a drunken fall down the basement stairs puts Eugene in a four year coma, in which time Cindi went from sweet and innocent to becoming Miss March. A quick hospital break out, a burnt down hotel room, and a pair of Russian lesbians later, the boys arrive in Los Angeles to meet their fate at the Playboy mansion.

Bonus points to Cregger and Moore for doing nearly anything for a laugh. There are more than a couple of “I can’t believe they went there” moments, which would probably seem much more like praise if they were able to mine any actual laughs out of it. The character dynamic between Eugene and Tucker is good, as in they’re well matched, but Tucker’s such an unremarkable example of human fertilizer, it’s hard for me to care. For some strange reason, Tucker’s the guy that decided to take the Playboy aesthetic and make it his everyday philosophy; like that episode of The Simpsons where Bart and Milhouse become “Playdude Playmates,” but creepier. When the character gets lost in his own BS, that’s when my mind started to bail.

So when Tucker isn’t acting like a future Stalkers Hall of Famer, and when Eugene isn’t being the whiny wet blanket, the film relies on one of three things to get by, each as stupid and bored as the last: poop jokes, mindless cartoon violence and sexy lesbians. And then after 70 some odd minutes of this, the film has the audacity to use Hefner for some “it’s what’s on the inside that counts,” knowing is half the battle moment. And I won’t lie, I felt sorry for Hugh Hefner in a how the mighty have fallen kind of way. He stuck his name to a pedantic script that’s probably done more damage to his brand than feminism and the internet combined. Whatever he got for making this film, it better be nothing less than the Ark of the Covenant, or the missing 18 minutes of the Watergate tapes.