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 stepping 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. And I’m hoping that it’s 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 U.S. look better by comparison.

I would argue that images of Miley Cyrus at the VMAs perform an equally valuable public service by depicting 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 using 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.

2. Apparently all of Miley Cyrus’s sexual experiences heretofore have been with a man too drunk to maintain an erection.

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.

Lastly, let’s not overlook the fact that 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. While 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 her again.

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