Hef's Girls of Golf

I wanted a few extra bucks so I put the word out to my friends that I was in the market for some cash and if they hear of any gigs to pass them my way. My friend, Beth, calls and hooks me up with a bartending job for the weekend.

"It's just Saturday and Sunday. $500 cash plus tips".

I'm in. I find out it's at a country club in Simi Valley.

Being a New Yorker, I told her it sounded far away. Turns out it's like 40 minutes, but isn't everything in LA?

The country club reminds me of the sprawling exclusive clubs in the East Coast suburbs; you know, the ones that don't allow Jews.

I don't bartend, but being an actress I've had to wear a lot of hats to support my craft and shoe obsession. I've done everything from work as a cigar girl in a strip club to selling pot, (legally of course) but nothing could have prepared me for the day I got Jose Conseco drunk.

Pulling my car into the lot at 9am I notice the enormous pink Playboy Bunny banner that extends across the entrance to the club. As my eyes adjust to the surroundings -- beautiful mountains, lush man-made greenery, giant fake breasts -- it hit me that I may be forced to don an ass baring mini, and giggle while I bounce up and down shouting "Nice stroke!" to some guy in argyle socks.

What am I in for and why the hell didn't I bring my one-hitter?

We bartenders mingled with the "Girls of Golf." These are hundreds of hopeful young women around the ages of 18-22 dressed in micro-mini powder blue hooker-like "golf outfits" who won various beauty contests across the country for an opportunity to shmooze, attend "The Mansion" parties, and possibly get discovered by Heff. All on their dime.

After being given my booze and supplies I am shuttled to the seventh hole in a Golf Cart by Barry, a Boston cop who works as head of security for the Playboy corporation when he's not on the beat. He tells me to watch out for rattle snakes and asks if I know how to cook a lasagna. When dropped off on the small hill of soft green sod I have to set up my Tiki Bar which takes about 10 minutes. The next hour I'm alone in beautiful silence. Nestled in the bosom of the mountains with the sun shining I take a cue from the Bunnies and take strip down to my boy shorts and sports bra, lie down on the Bunny Bean Bag (for sleepy Bunny Wannabes) and soak up some rays. I must have dozed off because I awoke to the "Wooo!" sounds of the Golf Girls who were apparently assigned to my "hole".

I had Mandy and Mandi, Rosie and Lorin. None of them had a dimple on their thighs and they all played pop music on their pink Razor phones.

I poured shots of what can only be described as something that looked like it leaked out of my car. The four Girls Of Golf entertained the "gentlemen" as they, um, teed off.

"Where do you girls come from?" asked one of the golfers.

"We all flew in from different countries," said Mandy with a "y".

"Countries?"

"Oh. What are they called... Um... wait...STATES!"

Oy vey.

One Playmate was so wasted she pulled aside her g-string to squat and pee right next to my Tiki bar. At that moment a golf cart pulls up and out walks a strapping Latino man with the arms of a Valkin Warrior. Someone mentions that it's Jose Conseco. I get on my cell and call my friend Joe who tells me all about Jose's controvercial steroid abuse, his book that outed his teammates, and his batting averages. Apparently the man has made 462 home runs.

I began pouring him shots and didn't stop for a good half hour.

Gossip leaked in through the Golf Girl Grape Vine... a Bunny got whisked away to God knows where for smoking rock on one of the greens.

Bad bunny! There was also rumor of Jose tipping over his golf cart and his wife spraining her wrist after leaving my watering hole. Oops. Was that my fault? How can I cut off a former Yankee?

When I ask Mandi ( with an "i" ) what she wants to gain from this experience, she says, "I want to do Victoria's Secrets!"

I tell her I think she only has one.

As the sun began to set, the Golf Girls got tired of bouncing around and shouting "Wooo!" A man the size of a refridgerator, who plays for the Giants (appropriate), decides it would be funny to tackle my Tiki bar.

He knocks the whole thing down around me like a bad Spaghetti Western set. When I asked him if he was going to clean up the mess, he looked at me like I was from another planet. I am -- it's called Earth.

The massive amounts of testosterone coursing through his body obviously has eaten the part of the brain that handles judgment and consideration.

Exhausted, I began to close up shop for the day when I over hear Mandy with an "y" say in response to a question asked by a man wearing jewelry that would make Zsa Zsa Gabor jealous,

"I don't know anything about anything!"

Neither do I Mandi, neither do I.