So Bunny

I have an obsession with Playboy. 

 

Bunnies, to be exact.  

Potentially being one, to be more exact.  I have no shame about this.  And if I had more balls, I'd go to California and get to that Mansion and I'd be a bunny, lickety-split.  But from what I've learned from "The House Bunny", I'm like, 64 in Bunny Years.  Not so good.  (Couldn't they put vaseline on the lens for me? I've heard that's a good trick).  

"The House Bunny" is one of my favorite movies.  I understand the lesson of it, but I still can't help but fantasize about the idea of what it would be like to be a Bunny.  To live in a big house, with tons of girls who are like your sisters, to have a huge swimming pool, an unlimited spending account, all the plastic surgery and personal trainers you'd want, and the adoration and obsession of pretty much of all men (whether they admit it or not).  You wake up every morning and the sun is shining; you can go shopping with your Playmates and eat lunch wherever you want; you travel to Paris or Vegas or New York with Hef on business - or pleasure! - and you're like this little goddess with a super cute wardrobe and stripper heels.   

I've wondered frequently about the future of the Playboy Empire, and what will happen to it once Hugh Hefner passes - which will be a sad day.   He worries me, he does.  I wonder if he sees his bunnies move on to bigger and better lives and if he is melancholy over it at times.  I wonder if all the bunnies who moved away end up returning to, say, celebrate holidays.  I wonder if Hef has sweaters knitted for them, or if he gives them red bikinis and antlers to replace the ears.  I wonder if he gives them dental, and what his healthcare plan is like.  Besides the whole possibility of tons of casual sex, they seem like healthy, happy girls.  There's a price for that happiness, no doubt, but I guess the question is, if they're happy, then isn't that what matters?