Today I wish to discuss an extremely important event in American history. No, I’m not talking about the 50th anniversary of the MLK ”I have a dream” speech. Frankly I’m over it. The speech embarrasses me. Not the speech itself, which was quite brilliant. I’m embarrassed that he had to give it in the first place. Sadly the deep south would lynch MLK today if given the opportunity. But we’re not here to debate the state of race relations in the United States. An equally important event occurred on Sunday at the VMAs involving the unfortunate progeny of one Mr. Billy Ray Cyrus. This could be a seminal moment in the annals of our nation.
When time inevitably marches on and the historians look back at the golden age of American power and more specifically the decline which has already begun, they will—as all historians do–attempt to isolate the United States’ “The sacking of Rome” event. That one disaster that while not the only cause of imperial demise, is the one most remembered as being the match that lit the bonfire of our journey towards irrelevancy. So what will our Vandals and Visigoths at the gate moment be? September 11, 2001? Launching wars of aggression in the Middle East which we can no longer finance? Could it be the financial meltdown of 2008-2009? I proffer the argument that it was Miley Cyrus’s “performance” at the VMAs on Sunday night that will be most remembered as THE MOMENT that the American dream died. This was a pan-oceanic tsunami having sex with a nuclear plant meltdown, spawning Miley’s back-alley coat hanger abortion of a display on Sunday. Curmudgeonly old bastard that I am I did not watch the VMAs and have very little interest in pop culture events. When I heard the whirlwind of media attention on Monday morning I still did not watch. Even when that whirlwind became a cacophony of outrage, still I did not give in and watch. But yesterday during what will now be looked upon as a fateful ride on the stationary bike at the gym my eyes beheld on the CardioVision monitor the horror which unfolded. This day, much like Pearl Harbor, will live in infamy. It is the day when America showed its ass to the world and announced, “We’re really this fucking stupid”.
I don’t even know where to begin. Madonna, on her absolute worst of worst burrito and tequila diarrhea day, has more talent in her pinky finger than does Ms. Cyrus. When your entire career (and regrettably hundreds of millions of dollars) is built on the nepotism of arguably the worst song in the history of recorded music, we shouldn’t expect anything less. Don’t break my heart, my achy breaky heart. Break it you have, Billy Ray. I mean this isn’t even Billy Ray Valentine’s kid we’re talking about (“Sounds like y’all are a couple a bookies”), but the mullet of mullets himself. His was the grandest of mullets and it deserves better than to be associated with the decline of American civilization. I blacked out while watching the replay of the horrors. It was like a bad acid trip resplendent with dancing bears and giant cartoonish hands. When I awoke I saw Hannah Montana grinding her cornhole into the crotch of yet another no-talent ass clown whose entire career is based on nepotism. This is what we’ve become; even our nepotism is pathetic. Multi millionaire children of Billy Ray Cyrus and Allan Fucking Thicke. If these were the children of Bob Dylan (actually Jacob Dylan sucks hind tit himself) and Bill Cosby I’d get it. Allan Thicke, you have to be fist-fuckin’ me? Growing Pains was okay. It certainly wasn’t great. Achy Breaky Heart wasn’t bad. It was an unmitigated disaster with countless civilian deaths. Their offspring now pass for “entertainment”. Much like gawkers staring at the mangled limbs of those killed in a horrific car accident on the highway, I could not quit watching the carnival of the macabre on CardioVision. The images will haunt me until the comforting, cool embrace of the grave.
I think above all there is the look she kept broadcasting. You know that look. Was she trying to show “sexy”? Was it “naughty”? Was it “Oh no I just didn’t”? A responsible member of the audience should have walked onto the stage and slapped it right off her Chevy Chase. She can’t even execute a sexy face. My grandma does a better sexy face. She can feign sexy until the fucking cows come home but guess what? She isn’t sexy. Never will be. Beyond the look there was her chicken ass. Whoever advised her to wear that golden outfit given the current condition of her ass should be sacked immediately, with prejudice. If you plan to twerk it in front of millions wearing a thin coat of twat paint, then you need to do some squats and kettlebell swings. By “some” I mean “a fucking shitload”. At minimum take $1Million out of your jean jacket pocket and go buy an ass. It was an abomination. Do you see sistahs twerking it in a rap video with a flat, busted, broken down chicken ass? Do you? Fuck no you don’t. This is the ass representing America to the world? Sad face. I had a hotter ass than that, when I was 11. Then there was the giant foam finger pointing at her beaver. Yes Miley, we know where the dicks go. At some point we all figure it out, usually without the assistance of a giant foam finger and hopefully not while having to look at you make that ridiculous face. Things you are: nepotism lottery winner, one of the biggest of all time; no-talent ass clown who should take her winnings and fade from the landscape before the jig is up; heiress to the worst song in history. Things you are not: sexy; singer; actor; edgy; rebel; herpes-negative; Madonna. Robin Thicke did not even look like he wanted to fuck you, and Robin Thicke fucks anything that moves. Lastly the bears. What did teddy bears ever do to you, you vapid trollop? Why did you have to go and ruin them for the rest of us. I can’t come home from a business trip in Seattle with a souvenir teddy bear for my daughter ever again. Leave the dancing bears to the Grateful Dead.
I don’t want to be misunderstood. I don’t fault Billy Ray’s seed for being outrageous and raunchy on television. I have a problem with how badly she sucks at it. Not to mention doing it with a trainwreck of an ass. Unforgivable. If this isn’t the decadence phase of the American empire then I don’t know what is. We rest of the laurels and achievements of greater men and women, drinking Starbucks coffee milkshakes while the spawn of D-list celebrities are paid millions to make unquestionably awful music. We deserve our fate for allowing this to happen. When the scholars piece this together centuries from now they’ll likely uncover the audio and come to the startling realization that the seed of the American Experiment’s undoing was sown in the rich soil of “But don’t tell my heart, my achy breaky heart, I just don’t think it’d understand. And if you tell my heart, my achy breaky heart, he might blow up and kill this man. Ooo.” The barbarians are not at the gate fellow countrymen. The gate has been breached.