Doggies read it for the articles, too

We get an insane number of catalogs. You can't wander seven feet in the Compound without one catching your eye. They're everywhere, like mosquitoes hoping to latch onto your wallet and bleed the few (and I mean few) dollars you earned at whatever prison work camp you're stationed at.

You name it, we get. JC Penney, Ikea, NFL Shop, MLB Shop, Sharper Image, something called Oriental Trading Company which I thought was an adoption rag produced by Angelina Jolie; all of which hock shit I wouldn't pelt fourth-graders walking on my front yard with. Then, because Wife is a truly wonderful woman who puts my pubescent thoughts ahead of her own maturity or good sense, in comes the Victoria Secret and Fredricks of Hollywood catalogs. Amen! Christmas comes early to the Compound. Of course, I diligently ask Wife whether she wants it before I look toss the smut rag decorated as a catalog in the recyclable bucket.

But those all pale in comparison when what did my wondering eyes see Wednesday but the holy grail of smut 'logs - Bunny Shop. My man Hugh Hefner, who made the Reagan '80s a little more palatable with a wonderfully thought-provoking magazine called Playboy - thoughts like, "chicks actually was their cars in the buff? Holy crap! - gathered his bunnies to slap together a catalog showing off their assortment of clothing (really, every article of attire - I can't call it clothing with a good conscience - was an exercise in creatively using shoelaces and mosquito netting).

Just like Vick's Secrets and Freddie's shoppers, I dutifully looked tossed the catalog in the recycle bucket. Fearing forks in eyes after being chloroformed by an angry pregnant woman also played into my decision to pitch the clothing catalog.

What I didn't expect were my dogs' desire to shop for a matching pair of push-up bra and panties adorned with the bunny logo.

I came home from work yesterday to a few presents around the house. Not stinky, mushy presents (I expect those come April from a much louder, less furrier package) you'd expect after leaving pooches inside for six hours. No, instead these presents were ripped paper towels, crunched egg shells and coffee grounds. From the amount of grounds left on the floor, the dogs aren't Folgers fans.

The other present left near the pool table - I still believe they shoot some stick when we're out slaving at the prison work camps, but that's a story for another day when I'm heavily under the influence - was the discarded Bunny Shop.

If they would have barked at the trash can like Lassie directing police officers to the serial sheep rapists in her little town I would have given my pups the mag. How the hell would I know that they like to look at fake tits?

I'll admit, I told the dogs I was none the pleased with them as I let them out to do their "business" (after looking at the catalog, I imagine that has many connotations) but when I found what they pulled out of the trash and deposited into another room - yes, they had to carry the catalog out kitchen and walk away with it - my anger receded like my hair line. I laughed, and when I let them back in there was only one thing I could say: "I didn't know I raised lesbo doggies, girls."

And that's just fine by me. I know how those boy dogs can be. I've seen 'em in action. Hell, I'm one myself, so I know how they are. They're - well - dogs. So, to learn that my female dogs preferred the sight of tits over dick, well, that filled me with pride. I raised 'em right.

Boys are bad. Just keep saying it over and over again, girls.

And I hope, no, pray that if Freeloader happens to come out with indoor plumbing that she learns the same mantra.

"Boys are bad," oh, and "Let's go, Dodgers!" And while she's at it, Female Freeloader should learn the lyrics to the San Diego SuperCharger song.