The Final Word On Miley Cyrus
It has now been a few weeks since Miley Cyrus’s groundbreaking performance at MTV’s Video Music Awards, and I know that we are all still desperately trying to recover from Miley’s latest attempt to recast herself as an American sex symbol.
Let me say this: if after watching her perform at the VMAs you had any desire to fuck Miley Cyrus, you might also be interested in titty-fucking Betty White because I haven’t seen that much pale, flaccid skin since I saw my grandmother getting out of the shower when I was five.
And let me add that I want to see Miley Cyrus in flesh-colored underwear twerking Robin Thicke about as much as I want to see video of Khloe Kardashian’s most recent pelvic exam—which is to say, not that much.
Because I’m guessing that it’d probably be messy. Like hacking your way through a South American rain forest. It would definitely require a machete.
Furthermore I’m not sure what graduate program at Harvard Miley is currently enrolled in, but I’m presuming that it’s something. It has to be, right? And I’m hoping that it’s something in the field of feminine studies because what better way to celebrate the 50th anniversary of the publication of Betty Friedan’s The Feminine Mystique than by having the daughter of a mulleted country music singer rub her flaccid ass cheeks into the wizened crotch of the 40 year-old son of the dad from Growing Pains?
I’m not sure if Kirk Cameron is planning an equally salacious spectacle to commemorate the anniversary of his personal religious salvation, but I’m hoping that it involves coming out of the closet by donning a leather gimp mask and simulating fellacio on Tony Danza.
And any angry soccer moms still upset at the sight Miley’s failed attempt to look sexy ought to be equally if not more outraged every time the 5 o’clock news shows footage of Syrian children struggling to breathe after another Syrian army gas attack.
Except of course soccer moms are not outraged by that. Because those images perform a valuable public service by galvanizing America’s bloodlust against another tyrannical foreign government and help to make a sanctimonious US look better by comparison:
Because sure, we may bomb innocent civilians and occasionally level an entire village, but at least we don’t use chemical weapons in the process, and that makes us the bastions of moral integrity!
I guess what I’m trying to say is that asking the U.S. to be the worldwide arbiter of war crimes is a bit like asking Lindsey Lohan for directions to the nearest AA meeting, or asking Amanda Bynes to be your life coach, or asking Michael J. Fox to teach a class on calligraphy. There’s just something inherently illogical in each of those proposals.
Well I would argue that images of Miley Cyrus at the VMAs perform an equally valuable public service: they depict an atrocity being perpetuated against viewers like myself who tune in to MTV expecting to see something slightly more arousing than a desperate Scandanavian hooker trying to use a foam finger as a dildo.
Because we learned two things at this year’s VMA’s, didn’t we? 1. Apparently Miley likes it in the back door and 2. Apparently all of Miley Cyrus’s sexual experiences heretofore have been with a man too drunk to maintain an erection and I don’t necessarily mean Billy Ray Cyrus, it’s just that if you’re going to sexualize your daughter before her first period while she’s still a star on the Disney Channel, you might consider taking a page from the playbook of John Phillips of the Mamas and the Papas and try to be a little more discreet.
You know, rather than encouraging your daughter to mimic being penetrated by your limp and spongy member before an audience of millions of preteens and creepy old men alike. And I don’t exclude myself from that description, by the way, I consider myself a preteen. Which is creepy enough in and of itself.
In case you’ve missed any of the subtext here, I am suggesting that Billy Ray Cyrus fucked his daughter, and even if he didn’t, he is at least a little too excited every time she gets onstage in her underwear and dry humps a middle-aged white man who tries his best to sound like a middle-aged black man. You may not have thought that “Achy-Breaky Heart” was about an incestuous relationship, but even if it is, it doesn’t make that song any worse than it already is, so relax. You never liked it to begin with.
I guess what I’m trying to say is that Miley Cyrus is like what JonBenet Ramsey would have become if she hadn’t had that “accident” in her father’s basement so many years ago. And by accident I do mean talking out of turn after her father asked her nicely to put on that skimpy cowgirl outfit and dance jig to Devo’s “Whip It.” So if we’re really looking for someone to blame, we might as well point the finger squarely at her. And I’ll just go ahead and say what we’re all thinking: that miserable little cunt had it coming.
Now I realize that it may be considered in “bad taste” to refer to a murdered preteen as a ‘miserable cunt’ but let’s be honest, you’ve all been in a crowded Pizza Hut or a JC Penny and thought to yourself more than once, “Jesus Christ, I wish somebody would JonBenet Ramsey that little shit.”
And by “JonBenet Ramsey” I do mean dress them up as a whorish princess and parade them onstage in front of a packed audience of lecherous reprobates and unrepentant pedophiles to do a choreographed dance routine to Madonna’s “Like a Virgin.”
Lastly, in Russia, they have Pussy Riot, whose members’ individual identities are subsumed by their shared ideology and their shared political agenda, and they are not afraid to go to prison in the service of those beliefs. And in America, we have unhinged narcissists who aren’t afraid to get onstage in their underwear and sing the praises of “Me, Me, Me” all while dry-humping a middle-aged white man who does his best to sound like a middle-aged black man.
Meaning that, in terms of ostentatious narcissism, Miley Cyrus is really just the 20 year-old female version of a cross between Donald Trump and Kanye West, and we all agree that they’re both simian shit-eating fuckbags.
And that’s the final word on Miley fucking Cyrus.
Now let us never speak of that miserable skank again.