Girlfriends

I love, "The Girls Next Door," and I think I've finally figured out why and I'll tell you in a minute. First off, for those of you not in The Know, "The Girls Next Door," is a reality-type documentary show about Hugh Hefner's three girlfriends and their mundane, day-to-day adventures living together at The Mansion. One man, three women, scantily clad, all getting along and enjoying life's simple pleasures. Sort of like "Big Love" meets "Show Girls" meets "Little House on the Prairie." Pure programming bliss. I cannot for the life of me continue the business of channel surfing when I chance upon this rich nugget of cable viewing heaven, I must stop and gawk. I may be deeply opposed to rubber necking on the freeway, but for this I have to slow down and stare and I think I know why. It's because they're so friggin' nice to each other. And their boobies are so gosh darn big.

Seriously, think about it. Three totally unsophisticated, looks-obsessed, uneducated girlfriends with no future earnings potential sharing one rich, vaguely attentive workaholic boyfriend. They should be at each other's throats, right? Pick me, pick me! Kicking, scratching and swearing up a storm. Well, they're not. Or if they are, the network will never let on. It's all peach pie and picnics for us. Any eyeball scratching cat fights have been left on the cutting room floor. (A phrase, by the way, that is now so antiquated that I'm dating myself. Again.)

And the boobies? So big. I look at them and marvel the way I look at certain secretary's incredibly long and winding 2-inch-plus fingernails and think,

1. How do you diaper your children?
2. How do you re thread the broken shoulder straps on their back-packs?
3. Pick gunk out of their eyes?

And with boobies I think,

1. How do you see the bottom row of keys on your computer?
2. How do you get your back tan?
3. Scratch your elbow?

I mean, their bellybuttons must be caked with years of hardened lint sediment in tiny little layers because they can't get in there. Or can they? I know! They can clean each other's belly buttons! And that, my friends is the genius of their living arrangement. Holly (The Mom), Bridget (The Girlscout) and Kendra (The Sullen, Slightly-Spoiled, Permanently-Hungover, Tomboy Troublemaker) live together like super-sweet co-eds in their own private sorority. Hef does little more than shuffle around, take naps and order soup.

In fact, Hef's whole mystique can be summed up by the fact that Holly's endearing nick name for him is "Puffin." Not "Tiger" or "Wild Man" or "Hercules." Just a silly little unobtrusive bird. Eagle, hawk and raven wouldn't have worked either, but Puffin fits him like a glove. Sure, occasionally we see them in his 1970s goth bedroom all sitting together on those cheesy, slippery crimson sheets, on that ridiculous custom made emperor-sized bed, but they're usually watching TV or eating ice cream. It's less like the west coast epi-center of adult hedonism and more like sleep-away camp.

In fact, I'm guessing there's far more debauchery going on at sleep-away camps all over the greater US than there is in Hef's bedroom. And not for lack of trying. Those girls have been bit by the sexy bug and you just know that on the myriad vacations they take without him there is some serious dirty dancing going on between the three of them. But we don't usually get to see that. We see golf cart hi-jinx, doggie grooming excursions and endless theme party planning. Plus their incredibly thoughtful and caring friendship, wanton giggling and mutual respect. Its bizarre.

And thank goodness they have each other. Those parties look dreadful. We don't get to see various young stud A-List movie stars mauling nineteen year old playmates from Arkansas. No, no, we see our three girls, their assortment of playpals, a sibling or two, sometimes a mom, Hef and his eighty year old brother and their ninety year old friends standing around under flourescent lights. It just looks so dismal I can't tell you. The only guest with any chutzpah, besides the effervescent Kendra, is Mary, Hef's executive assistant of 140 years. She a real piece of work, drinkin' and swearin' like a sailor, totally unimpressed by the whole circus sideshow. She just keeps plugging along, filing things away in shoe boxes and old metal filing cabinets, tucking missives into her brassier I imagine. As long as she gets a scotch and an occasional hand of poker she's happy. Of the whole lot, she's the one I would want to be stuck in an elevator with. Oh, the boring, redundant stories she could tell.

So, I recommend, "The Girls Next Door." No back-biting, no-infighting, not a single cross word between them. Just a trio of best friends havin' some good, clean fun. And lots of ginormous boobies. Truly a marvel to see.