Why Kylie Loves Miley

First of all, we must talk about the father of the prosti-tot: Billy Ray Cyrus. I’d buy him brunch the next morning. He looks like he’s stuck in that faze that all boys go through right after they come out of the closet. He grew out his bangs. He got blonde streaks. He bought pleather pants from the women’s section at Hot Topic, and his fag hag was pissed because he wears a size 10 and she’s a size 12. He got an arm band tattoo. He went to Daffy’s and bought Calvin Klein tanks at discount prices to wear to Splash. (Cause he thought Splash was the only gay bar.)

Personal story moment: When I was in the fifth grade, my Catholic school homeroom class went to Sam’s in Addison, TX, and performed the Achy Breaky heart line dance. Why you ask? I’m not really sure. However, I was blocked front and center (because I complained when I was in the back—I’m like Sheila in A Chorus Line). When everyone raised their left knees, I pretty much did a high kick—which took some serious training cause I’m right leg dominant. Then, we (and by we—I mean me, my friend Isie, and my other friend Jerome) put on black T-shirts with white pieces of tape on the front collar—total costume change from cowboy chic to minister sleek—and did “I Will Follow Him” from Sister Act I. I played the tamborine. I was a hot mess.

Anyways.

A couple of months ago, I was on a roadtrip and discovered Miley Cyrus via pop radio. Somewhere along Albany “See You Again” was on the “Top 8 at 8” and I was like, “This song is awesome: Hanna Montana’s going to be pissed.” You know, cause the name of the CD was “Hanna Montana: Meet Miley Cyrus” and I thought, Hanna Montana introduced Miley into the world, and Miley Cyrus has totally served Hannah with a hit single. I was later informed that Miley Cyrus and Hannah Montana are in fact the same person and that I was a fucking idiot.

Back to the topic: Miley Cyrus’s shizzle has gone fazizzle. I love you Miley Cyrus. You do everything for Jesus, but then pictures emerge of you dry humping an unattractive random like Elizabeth Berkley in Showgirls. HOT!!!! You show your naked back and give your father a slight lap dance (which I totally get—Hello Daddy!) in this month’s Vanity Fair.

You let her Madgesty “have it’ by busting out with a far superior video to “Four Minutes.”

You’re fifteen-years-old—and your best friend is a twenty-two year old pussy cat doll wannabe who couldn’t get extra work in a National Lampoons film.

You have your own wing of the house.

And until Britney Spears gets skinny again—you’re all I have. I love you Miley Cyrus.