The Predisastered Pages

There are few things I relish more in life than terrible beauty pageants.

Until last night, Kristan’s Worst Pageants Ever list was topped with a tie between Miss Something-I-Saw-on-Telemundo-a-While-Back and Miss Senior Irving Black-eyed Pea. I regret to inform the aforementioned organizations of this most recently developed news, but:

Dear Miss Telemundo 1990-Something and Miss Senior Irving Black-eyed Pea,

You are officially not the worst displays of pageantry. I’m sorry. That honor is reserved for whatever the freak show was from Vietnam last night. I’ll delve further into my reasonings, but I’m sure you knew this was coming once Miss Universe 2008’s live broadcast concluded.

Most cordially from your biggest fan,

Kristan

(Whew.)

Let it be known first and foremost that Roberto Cavalli owes a HUGE favor to Miss USA for falling down. With news about her tumble hogging up all the reports about the pageant, nobody mentioned the creepy, lecherous question the fashion designer laid out for poor Miss Mexico (marker 4:04). 

There were so many awful questions and answers, though. Miss Venezuela, whose black mascara trickled down her cheek upon winning the event, responded like a flattened Cupie doll. I also cackled myself into next Tuesday when a judge  wondered if there was still discrimination against women. But: When is a woman truly satisfied? Everybody at my house came totally unglued at that point — especially my mother.

“Who is that weird man?”

“He’s a designer, Mom. Maybe he was responsible for Miss Dominican Republic’s Tron dress.”

She shivered, “That was bizarre. Does he think he’s going to get to sleep with Miss Mexico now?” She continued in her best Roberto Cavalli voice, “Oh, my lovely, you will know satisfaction when you retire to my dressing room after the pageant. I wouldn’t touch him. I mean, look at that man!”

Then Mom returned to her regular pageant duty, Official Boob Judge.

“Those are fake.”

“Those are real, Mom.”

“No, they’re fake. Look at them.”

“No, they’re real, I swear!”

Luckily, Russell, who’s seen his fair share of fake vs. real titties by default of his sound engineering past, stepped up to the plate. “Sharon, those are real.”

“THOSE are fake.”

I slapped Russell’s leg; no sense in arguing with Mom even if it lended a real Mystery Science Theater 3000 feel to the viewing.

“Okay, Mom. Maybe they’re fake then.”

By the end of the show, Mom determined everybody had implants — possibly even host Jerry Springer.

This leads me to another point: Jerry Springer? Really? And Scary Spice? Seriously? Together? Holy shit, there is a god who understands me — who listened to my every pageant prayer, who felt my pain, who made amends for Donald Trump’s past pageant poo. Thank you, thank you.

Truly, Miss Universe 2008 hit every one of my requirements for terribly good pageantry: totally embarrassing fall, flashy evening wear for outer/inner space, odd choices for hosts, boobs with questionable levels of realness, Mom as a co-viewer, and most importantly, at least one sleazy judge. In this case, I’d say there were probably even two sleazy judges — with one of them being a woman. Gasp. Awesomeness times ten.

Miss Universe 2008, I dub thee Best Worst Pageant of Them All. Bless you.