Programs and Pageantry
My yute’s first lyrical beatdown – aka youth program - was last night at one of the local churches I rarely attend, and as a parent I have to say he peformed pretty well. My wife and I were proud of him for showing the jubilees to get up in front of a bunch of camera-wielding adults, and their apparently non-musical - or overaged and unable to perform - children. Sure, at some junctures it appeared as though he remembered the words about as well as an Alzheimer’s patient at a spelling bee, but the lyrics really wasn’t what it was about. In my humble yet thrown out to the masses opinion – I’m not an extra packet of Kool-Aid away from Jim Jones, but I’m getting close to requiring all black clothes and Nikes – just getting up there and attempting to do anything is a major victory for someone the age of 4 and a 1/2. He has yet to hit the age where all the fun is taken out of things by the pressure of me or my father yelling at him to throw strikes, rebound or kick the ball, and not worry about whether or not Jimmy will still be his friend if he starts over him at whatever a soccer position is.
Could you imagine if parents were as nutty over childrens’ programs as they are about their yutes’ sports teams? Off to the side, in the first pew on the left you hear, “Scott, get yourself together. Lift the yellow circle up all the way above your head! Sunshine! Jesus loves you for putting the sun all the way above your head.” One thing I really can’t handle is these pageant parents who dress their 1 year olds up in the equivalent of a midget’s prom dress, and pimp them out with more makeup than a whore who just passed an exploding Crayola factory. I mean seriously, were there any pictures of Jon Benet Ramsey that didn’t make you think that – while her parents didn’t have anything to do with her death – they at the very least helped attract some sick fool? I wouldn’t want to parade my child around to Little Ms. and Mr. Whatever County Needs a Small Child Representative contests all over the county fair circuit in front of the corndog and funnel cake laden masses. I mean, the talent portions of those contests basically consists of knowing the alphabet and counting to 30. Knowing how to do both, however, can be very helpful if you’re pulled over and asked to perform a field sobriety test.
Speaking of pageants, I read where this year’s Miss America pageant will not be broadcast by The Learning Channel, and has yet to find a home on any TV network. What is the gig with anyone still giving a damn about Miss America anyway? I remember the big story last year was some chick’s opposition to gay people being able to suffer through the daily tribulations and trials of wearing a ring like their heterosexual counterparts. It’s not that I am angered by her opinion on the subject, because she has a right to believe in whatever cornhole she wants to throw her beanbag through. I just don’t understand who or why anyone gave a fuck about it. So what if she thought anything, that doesn’t mean I’m going to do something based on that thought, like she has some kind of Miss America mind control trick she can play on me. This is a chick who has spent a large part of her life answering ignorant questions, while wearing a bedazzled gown with a sash around it to remind her what state she is from (For the record, Mayor Quimby is the only sash wearer worth listening to). Yet I’m supposed to give a damn that she wants me to spay and neuter my pets? Bob Barker, sure. He was as big a pimp as day time television has ever had next to the all mighty Richard Dawson, and his pimp hand was as strong as a thirteen year-old boys. Barker had fancy three-piece suits, those “I wanna play Plinko with you after the show” eyes, and that microphone that looked like it was an antenna ripped off a car in the parking lot with a silver super ball attached to the end of it.
As I was writing before I started fantasizing about what it must have been like to always be right about the price with the ladies, no one should listen to Miss America as if she’s a talk radio host with a verbal case of the Opinion Flu. Now, if Miss America were to tell me what type of duct tape is best to hold my breasts up during the evening gown or swimsuit competition, I’d listen closer than tuning into a whisper about the fact that you forgot to zip your pants. If she told me how to put vaseline on my teeth to make my smile more presentable, I’d read the ingredients label, add some type of 80 proof alcohol to the solution, and lube up. But when it comes to her telling me things like what her opinion is regarding what should transpire in America, and how “this” shouldn’t happen in America, I’m letting that shit flow right on out the other side. Until one of the contestants presents me with a resume that includes more than knowing how to tap dance the theme to I Love Lucy, or how to play the Jaws song on a kazoo, she’s gettin’ less of my attention than a used blow up doll at a yard sale.
Until next time, Love, Peace, and Chicken Grease…
