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Thursday, March 5, 2009

Montana, Montana, Glory of the South

I was just strolling down Fifth Avenue and decided to pay a little viz’ to Barnes and Noble. (I do that every now and then to keep up appearances, as word on the street is that I’m illiterate.) I took the escalator straight upstairs (where they keep the DVDs and cappuccino) and before I could ask someone to read me the directory, I was all but pummeled to the ground by two burly security guards. “How dare you,” I shrieked defensively. “I haven’t even tried to steal anything yet!” I looked around and the place was covered wall-to-wall with security. It looked like a crime scene. “I demand to know what’s going on here,” I… demanded.

Turns out, they were prepping for a book signing by one of America's all-time favorite bestselling authors, Miley Cyrus.

Yes, Miley’s finally penned her memoirs. In the new tell-all “Miles to Go”, the light of Billy Ray’s achy-breaky heart apparently divulges the personal and inspiring tale of her struggle to rise up like a phoenix from the fame and fortune into which she was born some two years ago, and eventually go on to achieve more fame and more fortune by cornering the market on crappy music for an entire generation of retarded, tone-deaf “tweens”. She also reveals her hopes and dreams for the future, which include – but are not limited to – earning her driver’s license, getting her period, and hooking up with the lesbian from the Jonas Brothers (the one that kinda looks like a boy if you squint.) If I’m not mistaken, Miley’s dedication on the inside cover is to her personal assistant “for her endless love and support, and for writing this autobiography for me.

I’m not a fan. In fact, it’s been a resolution of mine for some years to assassinate Miley Cyrus live on primetime television. I’d even settle for that skanky alter ego of hers, Hannah Montana (the chunkier of the two egos.) But until now, our paths had never crossed.

Do you have a wristband for the signing,” asked the security guard, as I stood glaring at the yellow curtain concealing the famous author; my nemesis. “No,” I said, “but I only need a few minutes with her. Tell her I have a message from Taylor Swift…

I was totally sent back downstairs! They were closing the entire second level and I was not allowed to shop. Ain’t that some shit? As I left the store, I passed an enthused mob of wristbanded kids and their parents stretching the length of block, waiting to meet Miley. “She’s only signing for the whites,” I said.

Every little bit helps.

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