Finally, something for me to get pissed about.
June 30, 2008Ok, it happened in April, but I just heard about it now. Miley Cyrus is getting a seven-figure book deal for, get this, an autobiography. Is anyone else’s bullshit detector going off? Because mine SURE THE FUCK IS.
What a fugly bitch.
In case I’m forgetting something, Miley Cyrus is fifteen. An autobiography is a literary work, usually non-fiction, detailing the life of the author. I’ll say it again- Miley Cyrus is FIFTEEN. What the hell is she going to write about? Plus, who says that she’s a phenomenal author worthy of a million plus dollars? If she’s anything like the average fifteen year old girl, her book would go something like this:
“umm lol ok so i caem out of my moms vagina, then my millionare hilbilly father sold my soul to a corporation bended on the corrpution of todays youth, wher i get thousands of $$$s to be in a half-our sekwense of mindless drivel!!! OMG LOL!!!”
Miley Cyrus said in an interview…
“I am so excited to let fans in on how important my relationship with my family is to me…I hope to motivate mothers and daughters to build lifetimes of memories together, and inspire kids around the world to live their dreams.”
Yeah, if the motivation you’re talking about relates to nude photos, an impending crack addiction, and an eventual death by drowning in a toilet. Also, what does she mean by “inspiring kids around the world to live their dreams”? Last I heard, she did nothing to live her dream, she was given handouts, deals for a TV show, records, live concerts, a movie, and now a friggin’ book deal.
Don’t they get it? She’s fifteen. She doesn’t have enough life to encompass a book, unless she were, by some freak occurrence, Marcel Proust.
Hell, I’m sixteen, but I don’t see anybody giving me millions of dollars for a description of my life. I’ll even give it to you for free.
Fall from Grace: The True and Gripping Tale of Maardu Rakvere
I was born into a family of three in rustic Estonia- a land where cruelty was king, and unibrows were regent. My father, Tallinn Rakvere, was a dirt-farming dirt farmer whose skull was as thick as his unibrow. He worked sixteen hours a day every day, just so the villagers could get fresh dirt in the markets every day. My mothers, Ookaboog van der Kleeg and Jane Eyre, worked as a duo of backalley surgeons. Together, my parents could barely make enough money to put dirt on the table. Our country’s economy was diving lower than a suicidal Sperm Whale. To make matters worse, my father was slowly dying of consumption.
At the age of nine, my father was dead, and we would surely starve. It was at that tender age of nine that my mother took my head in her hands, and said in her Estonian accent (which was as thick as her unibrow), “Maardu, there is nothing here for you. Make us proud in America.” My mothers, after sending me off to America, signed on to be the costars of an eight season long TV show about two mismatched, interracial lesbian roommate comedians, who try to live a normal life in NYC. It was called “Love City” and was cancelled before the first commercial break.
I took a job as a rower on a Viking ship, headed for America. I toiled all day and night, moving the oar back and forth until my childish hands were raw and sore. In the middle of the Atlantic, our ship was overtaken by the Dread Pirate Gipetto.
Gipetto had planned to sell our cargo, sandalwood perfume, in the Senegalese black market. He whipped us mercilessly for eighteen straight days and nights, until the entire crew was dead, except for me. Gipetto forced me to tether myself to the ship and dog-paddle the rest of the way to Senegal.
After selling the entire load of cargo, Gipetto was not satisfied. He wanted to sell me. He did, and for the next two weeks, I lived in a slave camp. I befriended an albino black guy named Moktar. We helped each other live through the slave camp by producing and selling shanks. Two weeks later, we were bought by the bad guy from Hostel.
The Hostel guy took us into the heart of Nepal, where he brutally brutalized us. He broke and re-set my bones so that I would permanently walk like a crab. He hooked up Moktar’s balls to a car battery and shocked him until his huevos rancheros fell out of their pouch- just like the Painolympics guy.
As the Hostel guy was about to kill Moktar, I used my pincer to chop off his leg. He bled to death as I freed Moktar and helped him escape. I delivered a one-liner, spat on my captor’s face, and promptly abseiled down a mountain.
At the bottom, Moktar and I found an ancient coven of monks. Not the pussy kinds, the kind that do martial arts. For five years, they trained Moktar and I in the art of Fuckyourshitup-fu. We both excelled in the beautiful, yet deadly art form, and attained the rank of So-black-light-cannot-escape-it Belt.
We left the monastery in order to get back to America. We walked for days and days, until we were at the foot of Mount Everest. We met a fat man who was getting a piggyback to the summit by Hillary Clinton. They agreed to give me their Cessna on one condition- I kill Moktar. There was this really emotional scene that they would definitely use in the movie and the music they play during this part would probably be Adagio in G. Anyway, I shoot Moktar in the face, shed a single tear, and fly to freedom.
The Cessna runs out of fuel, and I am forced to land in Canada. I spend months begging for money, living on the streets, and watching reruns of “Love City” in TV store windows. Wayne Gretzky hired me as his official ice skate licker. He paid me meager amounts of money, and let me sleep in his dirty laundry. This went on for ten months, when I got a rare blood disease that mere mortals cannot pronounce, and was sent away to avoid a lawsuit.
I wound up in Washington, D.C., where I eke out a living by stealing people’s pets and collecting the return reward money.
That was hella more interesting than any Miley Cyrus shit, and it teaches its readers a valuable lesson.
Ok Disney, where’s my million?
