As much as I hate being scooped, I have to admit that Cosmopolitan article about the woman who had the orgasm that almost killed her really hit home for me.

I walk through a minefield every night when I step into my bedroom and am forced to choose between my two live-in girlfriends. (I had three, but I seem to have misplaced one.) Every night, one of those girls puts her life on the line for me, god bless 'em!

After I've finished my business, one of the girls will often ask me to, uh, reach down there and help her along. As much as I would like to, I say "I can't--it's too dangerous." It's also too messy, but that doesn't seem to carry as much weight with them.

I came, I screwed, I came--now I want to go to sleep, okay? So I say to them--What if I gave you an orgasm that killed you? I could never live with myself. Or by myself.

"Gosh, Mr. Hefner," they say. "We had no idea! Thanks for thinking of us." Then they go downstairs and play fooseball.

They are so sweet. It makes me realize how precious life is.

A bimbo would be a terrible thing to waste.