Calling Bunnies to War
They were sitting in a kind of, well, bunny circle when I got there, a dozen women who at one time or another had flung themselves naked across the centerfold pages of Playboy magazine in complex poses of erotic beguilement.
They were surrounded by television cameras even though not a pouty, pretty one of them had her clothes off, which must have seemed, at best, perplexing.
The expressions in their big, beckoning eyes cried the question: Why would anyone want to take my picture when my underwear is still on?
It was a departure from their usual sessions, to be sure. This was something different, something grand, something ... American.
Playboy’s Playmates, you see, have gone to war.
The battle trumpet was sounded by their Playboy Patton, Hugh Hefner Himself, who called upon all 400 of the magazine’s ex-centerfolds, past and present, to join Our Boys Overseas.
Not physically, of course, because naked women are not allowed in Islamic nations, unless they’re in the shower, where photographers traditionally are prohibited.
Hef has asked his Playmates instead to write letters and send pictures to the guys as a way of boosting their morale, even though the pictures must be limited to the kind you can show your mom.
That’s never going to take the place of Miss December romping starkers through a creek bed, but hey, man, this is war, or at least near-war, and everyone’s going to have to make sacrifices.
Details of the Hefner call to arms were revealed in a 10th-floor room of Playboy Battle Headquarters off Sunset Boulevard.
He had sounded the call in response to requests from our boys in the desert to hear, as it were, from the girls in the bedrooms.
Hef organized what he calls Operation Playmate and announced in terms meant to convey the ultimate act of patriotism that in times of peril, Playboy’s Playmates can be counted on to do their part. Well, part of their part.
So. Cut to the ready room:
About a dozen of the bunnycakes were there, most of them demurely attired, answering questions like, “Are you proud of your body?” and “Wouldn’t you rather send other kinds of (wink) pictures to the soldiers?”
You must understand that these were mostly television people doing the asking. When you’re employed by an industry that recognizes Barbara Walters as its reigning intellectual, those kinds of questions seem appropriate.
A high point was achieved when a Playmate or two read aloud from letters they had already written, full of praise and prayers for their intended recipients.
These letters, incidentally, aren’t addressed to any one particular soldier, just to whoever happens to get it. They seal it with a kiss and send it to “Occupant.”
After reading them, the bunnycakes waited for the praise that invariably followed. In one case, so help me God, there was applause.
The whole thing was like a class in remedial reading . . . but then, what the hell, these are women who pose naked for a living, not doctoral candidates in runic verse.
At one point in the proceedings, I asked how the Playmates felt about the crisis in the gulf. There was stunned silence.
I had obviously said the wrong thing. Asking anyone to formulate an answer on world affairs when their interests are more attuned to nude skiing just wasn’t the thing to do.
For a frightful moment I thought I might be physically assaulted by a coalition of Playmates and Playboy publicists, but that didn’t happen.
During the moment it took for my question to reach the bunny brains, a television guy jumped in with, “Anyone here have a glossy she can hold up?”
Playmate attention was mercifully diverted and my life spared.
I left shortly thereafter and picked up a copy of the current Playboy magazine for research purposes. That’s risky when you have a bad heart.
For the benefit of our boys Over There, Miss December is an awesome six-footer named Morgan Fox with a bust line number only slightly lower than your sergeant’s IQ.
She appears in the photos unwrapped, so to speak, but further descriptions I cannot offer, due to the restrictions previously described.
Personally, I see nothing wrong with all those Playmates of the Month marching off to war, in their way.
I’m just sorry they can’t send the troops the kinds of pictures for which they are truly famous. They wouldn’t even be wearing flak jackets.