Playmate Cancels Wedding, Hefner Searches for Final Bride
Hugh Hefner’s secretary walked into his den while he was flipping frantically through the pages of his Playboy magazines, and she thought she had caught him in a personal moment.
She stepped back, startled. “I’ll come back later,” she said.
“Wait,” Hugh Hefner said. “Ever since I got jilted, I’ve been looking through these Playboys trying to find my next bride. I’m not getting any younger, you know. I’ve only got two or three more weddings left in me.”
“You don’t need the magazines,” the secretary said longingly. She had been with Hefner since the early days and was referred to as Miss Moneypenny, or Miss Money, by everybody in the Playboy Mansion, though she never could figure out why. “True love is standing right in front of you.”
“What are you talking about?” Hefner asked, annoyed. “Oh, of course, the computer. I’ve got every issue online. Thank you, Miss Money.” Hefner turned on the computer and a few minutes later was yelling at it. “What do you mean I have to pay and register? I built this company!”
“Mr. Hefner,” Mrs. Money said reluctantly. “I can have the girls here line up, and you can choose one of them.”
“I can’t find love in a line-up,” Hefner said. “Maybe in a pin-up, but not in a line-up.”
Miss Money changed tactics. “Maybe you can choose somebody who hasn’t been in any of your magazines. Maybe you can marry somebody who’s been loyal to you for the last 40 years, somebody who will take care of you and stand by your side until your final days.”
Hefner was startled by this admission of Mrs. Money’s feelings. “You’re old enough to be my sister, and frankly, I find that inappropriate.”
“But I’m the only one who knows your thoughts, your feelings, your desires.”
Hefner was still a bit uncomfortable. “It would never work. I have certain ‘needs’ that I know you can’t fulfill.”
Mrs. Money moved toward him, pressed her body close to his, and began to disrobe. “I can satisfy all your ‘needs.’ I can still do anything that you wish, you desire,” she whispered, breathing into his ear.
“Egads, woman! Not that,” Hefner said. “I’ve got a hundred Playboy Bunnies to take care of that.”
Hefner pulled out a medicine bag and dumped out a dozen orange pill bottles onto his desk.
“I ‘need’ someone who can read these damn medication labels, and your eyesight’s worse than mine.”