Last night on cable, I- Dave Hill, one of America's foremost political analysts- watched another exciting episode of "Cathouse: The Series," the incredible show that chronicles the life and times of a bunch of people that work at the Moonlite Bunny Ranch, which is a completely legal whorehouse located somewhere in the awesome state of Nevada. As you can probably imagine, the show pretty much consists of a bunch of whores hanging out and talking about what it's like to live in a whorehouse and be a whore all the time (I would like to point out that when I say whore, I don't use the word in a pejorative fashion either. These women are literally people who have sex for money, just like the word whore suggests).
Joining the whores at the Moonlight Bunny Ranch is a sort of low-rent Hugh Hefner kind of guy who is also fat and bald, which for some reason seems to add to the effect of him being a decadent and fun-loving, yet possibly quick-tempered guy who is the boss of whores. They all seem to have a lot of fun together, the whores and their boss, sitting on each others' laps, getting really drunk, and talking about how fun it is to be together at the whorehouse all the time, just like one big happy family who just happens to be in the business of having sex for money (And loving it!).
Sometimes the camera will show the whores in their bedrooms as they get ready to bone some guy who has driven all the way out into the middle of the desert to pay money to have sex with someone who looks exactly like the kind of girl you'd pick up at 2 a.m. on Wing Night in a sports bar located in any suburban strip mall in America (No offense to the ladies of Wing Night. It's just that if you're gonna drive all the way out to the middle of the desert and everything...well, hopefully you see my point.). More often than not, the guy paying to have sex with the whore has a mustache and is wearing a pair of Dockers, the popular casual pants. The whore and the guy with the mustache sit and giggle for a few minutes while discussing exactly what he is going to get for a few hundred bucks and then the next thing you know the camera cuts away and we are left to wonder about all the good times they must be having together. Then the camera will show some other whore splashing around in a swimming pool, playing with a hula hoop, or jumping around on a trampoline, which only serves to further illustrate the fact that it's good times all the time when you live in a whorehouse, even if you are just hanging out all by yourself and not boning some guy with a mustache while his Dockers lay in a ball on your bedroom floor.
Also last night on the really good show "Cathouse: The Series," they showed the whores drinking whiskey from penis-shaped shot glasses and- as you can probably imagine- the whores just laughed and laughed the whole time, as if getting drunk weren't enough fun already. It was kind of like when you happen upon a roving bachelorette party on a Saturday night and all the girls are really wasted and giggly and sipping pina coladas from penis-shaped straws while asking you to use their camera to take a picture of them that is not only hilarious, but one that they will all want copies of and with good reason. They want to remember this night forever even if they dare not speak of it again in front of their husbands, boyfriends, or anyone else they don't want to know how much they think that drinking from penis-shaped straws is a recipe for instant good times.
On a semi-related note, I once saw a box of penis-shaped pasta at one of those irreverent novelty-type stores that are dotted throughout New York City's popular destination for both locals and tourists alike, Greenwich Village. I imagine the whores of Nevada would have gotten a kick out of that stuff too.
Sometimes I wonder what all the whores do when the cameras are off and they are faced with a bit of downtime at that whorehouse of theirs. Is it still all fun and games all the time? Or do they just hang out and smoke cigarettes while dreaming of the day when they'll get to pack up their fake boobs and tattered Frederick's of Hollywood wardrobe and not live in a whorehouse anymore? And when they do leave, will they promise to call up the fat bald guy who runs the place every once in a while just to say hello?
In closing, I would like to point out that if President Bush and his pack of helpers did their job even half as well as the whores on the popular program "Cathouse: The Series" appear to be doing theirs, we (and I am referring to all of us) wouldn't be in this whole mess in the first place.