The Girls Next Door

When Jeffrey Dahmer wanted to zombify his victims, he drilled a small hole in their unfortunate skull into which he poured formaldehyde, and BAM! Instant zombie slave. This is a feeling somewhat similar (well, I imagine) to how you might feel after watching 6 straight episodes of The Girls Next Door, aka Girls of the Playboy Mansion. Unless you're a 15-year-old boy, in which case you'll feel intensely pre-occupied and able only to utter the word 'boobies.'

I guess it’s at least a more humane way of creating a zombie army of idiot children.

God, I hate this show. It's not even a show, it's dreck. Horrid, sleazy, pointless, depressing dreck, which speaks of nothing but the slow, encroaching end of civil society. There is nothing even vaguely funny about it -- which is a particular achievement seeing as it centres in large part on an Octogenarian Hugh Hefner doing a passable job of portraying a cadaver. Infact, it's the opposite of funny; it's hideously, bone-crushingly depressing.

I'm as much for people enjoying their sexuality until they can't get themselves out of bed as the next person, just as long as I never, ever, ever, ever have to witness it in any way. If people want to live a polygamous lifestyle as one of three concubines to an ancient, barely functioning smut-peddler, that is also fine. If you want to throw parties with no-name, D-list celebutards as attendees, go for it! Just don't expect for it to make great television. In fact, don't expect for it to make television at all. The Girls Next Door is a series of increasingly painful forty minute long commericals advertising the end of reason. It is also, hugely popular.

While the tried and tested MTV format of quick cut edits over the clever employment of silly noises and a cute old school soundtrack reminiscent of a '50s sitcom (The Osbournes) was a deft touch a poking fun at the subject, it's been so copied and dulled down that this is its natural end. This, ladies and gentlemen, is the end of dog racing. For every Gene Simmons Family Jewels there's a Sunset Tan. For every LA Ink, there's Inked on A&E. And for everyone who deserves a punch in the balls, there's The Girls Next Door.

These people don't need to be poked fun at in attempt to show us how celebrities are just like us only independently weathly. They need to be euthanised.

Why does this exist? There’s five seasons so far. Isn’t Hugh Hefner dead yet? Maybe he is. Oh wait, we’ve already seen Weekend At Bernie’s. Nothing will fill the hissing, gaping void of dignity which looms in place of where this show’s reason for existence should be. Thanks E! Network Television, for inching us all ever closer to death. 

This scores Less Than Zero. (Sorry, Bret Easton Ellis.)