You know me, always on the lookout for truly jaw dropping reality shows. Well, last night I came across a great one: THE GIRLS NEXT DOOR: BUNNY HOUSE on E!
You’re all invited to swing by the Playboy Mansion and meet the former Playmates who inhabit this on-site dormitory called The Bunny House. Inside you’ll find nine or ten of the dumbest female creatures ever to inhabit the earth and their far-more-intelligent little doggies. Never before has so much silicone and so little brains been assembled under one roof.
I assume this is all just part of the Mansion’s zoo, which also includes peacocks, rabbits and spider monkeys.
Here’s the level of conversation: A bunch of these airheads are in the pool. One asks the following deep philosophical question: “For a million dollars would you have a three-inch penis on your head and you can never conceal it?” The consensus: Yes. One girl said she’d just get a collection of hats thus clearly not understanding the meaning of “you can never conceal it”.
Question two: “Would you ever get a dude’s name tattooed on you?” Overwhelming majority: No! That’s obviously far more objectionable than a penis on your head.
In the searing episode last night a new girl was invited to the house for a bar-b-que. She was so nervous. I was nervous that the bunny who was grilling burgers would put her hand on the grill not comprehending the concept of “hot”.
The big moment was when Hef arrived. Picture the Crypt Keeper in a red bathrobe and sailor’s hat. He must’ve weighed less than any of the girl’s breasts. It was Popeye at 200.
Hef had a big decision to make – which two girls were going to share the master bedroom? One girl needed it because she required all the closet space for her wardrobe. They showed the closet. It’s the size of the Kennedy Center. How many thongs and short shorts must this girl have?
“How do you get invited to live in the Bunny House?” the newbie asked. Well, you have to be a Playmate (Drat! That leaves out Nancy Pelosi.). Unsaid was you must have bazooms the size of Macy’s Parade balloons and the IQ of a pencil box. The newest tenant said she wrote Hef a letter telling him she had no friends or family and nowhere really to go. How long did it take to get back to her? Six months.
Six months??? Then where the hell was she living in the meantime? My guess is Mr. Superfly’s Pimp House. Look for that show on Court TV.
For part two of this episode they all went to Vegas for the gala Playmate of the Year formal introduction. Hope (the winner) and her zany bunny friend Jade went the night before to get a good night’s sleep. Yeah, right. Jade was a baaad influence. She convinced Hope to go out, party, get shit faced, and then accompany her to a tattoo parlor to try to get her ex-boyfriend’s initials removed from her lip. His name was Brody Jenner so that’s right – she had B.J. tattooed to her lip. If I were her I would have kept it. Just as Sarah Palin (who would make a great den mother to this sorority) wrote crib notes on her hand, this way Jade could look in the mirror and always remember what her lips were for.
Poor Playmate of the Year, Hope. She had to write a speech for the big event. All she could come up with was a half page of incoherent scribbling on a crumpled sheet of legal paper. She must’ve been working on it for a month. Thankfully her best friend Jade came to her rescue, telling her to just speak from the heart then ripping up the speech and eating (yes eating) it.
The big show the next night was a huge hit you’ll be relieved to hear. Hef, now in clothes (looking like a well-dressed camp survivor) beamed as Hope vowed to make him proud. That means what? Do anything short of having John Edwards’ baby?
Miss Fresh Meat and her little yapping mutt were invited to move into the Bunny House and all was right with the world.
But wait!
We see Hef in bed (with his little pooch) and he’s still not sure just who should occupy the master bedroom. Uh oh! Hellzapoppin’ next week! Talk about a cliffhanger! Expect things to turn really ugly as these girls gouge each others eyes out for that extra closet space.
THE GIRLS NEXT DOOR: BUNNY HOUSE – just like a three-inch penis on your head; it’s useless but you just can’t take your eyes off of it.
17 comments :
I must protest such politically incorrect commentary aimed directly at the pectorially enhanced, the Senior-American female-embracing community, and most of all the ... sniff, sniff, excuse me ... the little doggies, who are the true victims of this. WON'T SOMEBODY THINK OF THE PUPPIES! (Come to think of it, that's all Hefner does)
WV: propea, the CVS ripoff name for Propecia.
Usage note: In Playboy-speak, there is no such thing as a "Former Playmate." Once you have been in the centerfold you are a Playmate forever.
I'll check them out. IT. I'll check it out.
Off topic: Your chances of becoming an Idol judge just skyrocketed again, Ken!
http://tvwatch.people.com/2010/08/11/jennifer-lopez-out-judge-american-idol/
(WV: deneriou - promissory note in Spain.)
“How do you get invited to live in the Bunny House?” the newbie asked. Well, you have to be a Playmate (Drat! That leaves out Nancy Pelosi.")
FYI, hot coffee is a poor sinus irrigator.
Tod, just as you can never be a "former Marine." or Mouseketeer. Or Manson Family member.
PLAYBOY jumped the shark quite some time ago, around about the time Hef started selecting Playmates based overwhelmingly on just 3 physical criteria:
1. Artificial Blond
2. Artificial Tan
3. Artificial Chest
Do you spot a trend?
Unfortunately, the female populace in general has apparently embraced this trend.
Hef needs to eat a sandwich and broaden (pun intended) his definition of "sexy girl".
And, yes, I'm raging jealous.
Please, Ken! Keep us up to date on this gripping story. I can't STAND to watch the stuff, but I can't WAIT to hear your take on it next time! Comedy at its finest! Thanks, once again, for a daily laugh!
Didn't at one time, in a move I'm sure he felt was adding a little touch of his idea of "class" to the place, Hef have a statue of a knight in full armor and holding a a lance (either sitting on a horse or not, I don't remember) on the grounds out near the front gate at the mansion? I took it (especially with the lance included) to be just another one of his subliminal male domination phallic symobls that he probably didn't even realize... To show how times have changed, these days, I suppose he'd probably have a statue of a venture capitalist holding a gallon pickle jar full of viagra standing up nice and erect out there...
" Tod Hunter said...
Usage note: In Playboy-speak, there is no such thing as a 'Former Playmate.' Once you have been in the centerfold you are a Playmate forever."
So there are some 80 year old Playmates knocking around that house somewhere?
Hefner may go on dressing like a sailor and trying to live in an eternal porn movie until he's 1000, but as far as he's concerned, women cease to exist at 30. Or is it 25? Or is it 20?
" Brian said...
PLAYBOY jumped the shark quite some time ago, around about the time Hef started selecting Playmates based overwhelmingly on just 3 physical criteria:
1. Artificial Blond
2. Artificial Tan
3. Artificial Chest"
So you're saying it jumped the shark in issue #1?
If they'd asked the penis question of guys instead of girls, they'd have learned that the embarrassing part of "a three-inch penis on your head and you can never conceal it" isn't the "on your head" part; it's the "three-inch" part. Ask a guy: “For a million dollars would you have a 10-inch penis on your head and you can never conceal it?” and the answer would be "Can I pay the million in installments? Sign me up!"
So they wouldn't get a guy's name tattooed on them, but a guy's initials, initials that are "BJ" no less, is fine with them?
I may spend years trying to figure out how the Playmate of the Year will make Hef proud. "Today, she tied her own shoes. Admittedly, she tied them to each other, but it's a start. I'm so proud."
At least her speech didn't include "And I am so uniquely honored to be the very last Playmate of the Year Hef will ever see. What? Oh Hef, I thought they'd told you."
"...this on-site dormitory called The Bunny House. Inside you’ll find nine or ten of the dumbest female creatures ever to inhabit the earth..."
I'm shocked. Next you'll tell me there's gambling in Casablanca.
"Hope (the winner)"
Thank you for clarifying that. I was lost for a moment there.
"Do anything short of having John Edwards’ baby?"
No, having Kelsey Grammer's baby. Could someone who has worked with him explain how Grammer gets such young, good looking women to bear his children?
By the way, could they have cross over episode with the Hollywood Husband show? The guys go over to help with the sun tanning lotion duties. What could go wrong?
Ugh! I hate these so-called reality show. Maybe they can have Glenn Close as a special guest star. We all know what she can do to a bunny.
What the hell? I thought that American Idol was your favorite idiotic reality show. What's the deal, Ken.
I can not understand why people--including my mother--watch these shows, just to cluck about how much BETTER they are than those on the screen.
I have no interest, so I just don't bother with them.
I thought this show was a great guilty little pleasure! Claire Sinclair, the newest of the girls was so funny and she really does look like a beautiful girl next door, not some fake, tanned, person. This show will continue to do fine if Claire gets most of the air time I would imagine. Cute and silly, fun to watch!
I thought this show was a great guilty little pleasure! Claire Sinclair, the newest of the girls was so funny and she really does look like a beautiful girl next door, not some fake, tanned, person. This show will continue to do fine if Claire gets most of the air time I would imagine. Cute and silly, fun to watch!
Say what you what about Hefner, I thank him for helping fund restoration (and preservation) of classic films, including a lot of pre-Code stuff that might have fallen by the wayside were it not for him.
I have no proof of this, of course, but I suspect that there are probably three beds in the master suite, each of them occupied by only one person. Ever. At least I hope . . .
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