On the Walls of the Underground

So...The Playboy Mansion is...like...this place that exists. Every once in a while I come to this conclusion, and it's not like I ever change my mind or anything. It's not like I wake up one day and think...Playboy Mansion who? It's just that I'm reminded of existence on occasion...and it...almost always..causes me to pause. More often than not it happens when I'm channel surfing and I come across the infamous 'The Girls Next Door' (aka 'The Girls of the Playboy Mansion' as it's known in England because, apparently, 'girl next door' is not terminology they are familiar with over here), but today it happened as I was piling off the Picadilly Line at Turnpike Lane and I noticed a poster on a wall in the distance with a girl in a bunny suit on...possibly named 'Paris' (I was a ways away)...and then the words 'The Playboy Mansion' were splayed (is that a word...because it's in my head) across the middle of the poster. And, well, I just remembered that it existed...and that it was...you know...acknowledged by a great deal of the world. Then I climbed out of the station into the spitting rain.

How is this reality? How is this a reality that we accept? And why does the youngest 'wife'? 'girlfriend'? 'Concubine'? Laugh like that? And why do we have to listen to it? And why does it suck us in? And when is that guy going to die? and how MALE centric can one television programme be? I mean...it's about those girls...but they exist...their entire existence...is based around this magazine that entertains men with boobs...and this old guy that apparently 'loves' them...at least until they are 30 something...but not too much older...because women are of no use past that age. How is this not something we detest entirely? I'm tellin you...if I don't get some answers....