The Donald, who makes P.T. Barnum seem like a retiring wallflower, bought the rights to the pageant a few years back and give the man his due, he could bring hype and buzz to his granny's funeral.
Let's look back at last year, shall we? Carrie Prejean gets the money shot gay marriage question right between the eyes from shitbag professional homosexual, Perez Hilton. Sweet little Carrie gave the same answer that Obama, Hillary Clinton, and every other slick pol gives after getting the same loaded question. Oh boy, shit meets fan. OUTRAGEOUS!!! Screamed the gay lobby and the amen pundit chorus. Fast forward to TV appearances galore, racy modeling photos exposed, boob job refund requests, and as a Grand Finale to the whole circus, a masturbation sex tape. (Which I still haven't seen, dammit!) Carrie's fifteen minutes start to wind down just as this years hoopla begins.
Chenoa Greene, Miss New Jersey 2010.
The Funeral Guy does not discriminate when it comes to race.
The Run Up To The Show-
How do you top all of last year's fuckery? Well, instead of the usual skimpy bathing suit promo shots we get the lovely young contestants posing in lingerie like a catalog for sex trade patronizing Arab sultans. (Be sure to follow the links to see the full layouts. You'll thank me.) Even the mogul with the cool-whip hair had to admit as though butter wouldn't melt in his mouth, that, "I think they've gone maybe a little over the top this year. These pictures are pretty wild." Then, while his hand fapped furiously in his front pocket, Donald added, "but the girls are incredible." THEY'VE gone over the top!!!!??? Isn't he the boss of this whole shebang? (tee hee) "Yeah, you know me. I'm totally hands off when it comes to events involving a bevy of young broads." Gotcha, Donald.
Morgan Woolard at her day job.
Taking men's minds off of messing with pink.
The Big Night-
Now of course I didn't watch this awful dreck, but it goes without saying that all the girls are shit hot. So, with that being stipulated, the only real entertainment comes from the dopey question portion of the pageant. Can these fetching but thick-as-a-brick bubbleheads fart out a coherent answer? Miss Oklahoma, Morgan Woolard, got a question about what she thought about the Arizona illegal immigration law. Now first of all, who gives a rolling shit about what Miss Oklahoma thinks about illegal immigration or any other question of public policy? Morgan's answer was surprisingly lucid, reasonable, and middle of the road. State's rights good, racial profiling bad. Wrong answer, of course. I'm sorry Morgan, the correct answer is the people of Arizona and their representative government are Nazi racist fascists who want to kill and imprison all brown people who don't speak the Queen's English. Needless to say, Morgan finished in second place.
Rima Fakih. Miss USA 2010.
You could bounce a dinar off her stomach.
And The Winner Is...
Miss Michigan, Rima Fakih. And Holy Mohammed! She's Muslim! Arab Pride, baby. They'll be no burka for this bitchin' babe, however the mullahs may need one to hide the priapic pole in their pants. But the hub-bub doesn't end there, my friends. Racy photos (natch') surfaced almost immediately of Rima slithering on a pole during some radio contest. Oh no, more publicity CONTROVERSY! Not particularly sleazy behavior by Girls Gone Wild American standards, but if it happened in a strict muslim country heads would surely roll. And I mean literally. Will she lose the crown over it? She's an ethnic minority. What do you think?
Rima working it.
But never during Ramadan.
So What Next?
While googling around about all this silliness (Lexxie has the day off) I realized something. Melania "Mrs. The Donald" Trump has now turned forty. The Big Four-Oh meets the big Uh-oh. Donald Trump is a Master of the Universe man that historically doesn't suffer aging wives lightly. (See: Trump, Ivana and Maples, Marla) I would suspect that as we speak, the army of Trump attorneys are scouring the prenup looking for a way for Donald to say to Melania, "You're fired!" What better time to have in your portfolio an annual pageant of poon. All parading in front of you. And you're the boss.
Big bouncing boobs and a bouncing baby boy
are no anchor on The Donald.
To him they're a dime a dozen.