For those of you holding your breath for the announcement, the annual title of Miss Bum Bum Brazil has now been awarded.
The title, which comes with a cash prize and some serious endorsement opportunities, is not taken lightly in this hiney-centric nation. Scandal erupted when the owner of the eventual winning tushie accused the sweet-cheeked third-place finisher of bribing the judges in an effort to secure victory. This, to me, demonstrates the moral rectitude of that august panel—they could not be swayed by offers of free bum bum, of which the contestants had plenty, and presumably offered in their efforts not to have their behinds left behind. These judges did not surrender their principles. They demanded their payoffs in cash.
Miss Bum Bums do not win points by participating in tiresome talent contests or boring interviews like girls in retro beauty pageants such as Miss America or Miss Universe. There is no evening gown competition, for that would be pointless. The bum bum is all. Regional and state contests produce local winning buns, which are narrowed down (although narrowness is not a sought-after quality in the competition) to fifteen final asset-holders. Then the frenzy to select Brazil's most bodacious booty begins in earnest. It is said that competitions like American Idol are poorly attended sideshows in comparison to Miss Bum Bum, so highly does the Brazilian nation prize its reputation for stimulating derrieres.
The obsession of the Brazilian people with the female bottom began in Neolithic times, when primitive girls with primitive behinds crossed over the Bering Sea land bridge during the last Ice Age and headed south in an effort to find a climate warm enough to flash their fannies. Arriving in Brazil, they abandoned the furs that had kept them snug in their emigration from Eskimo country and used the abundance of local jungle vines to invent the g-string. The invasion of the place by Europeans a few centuries ago did not increase their proclivity to wear clothes. On the contrary, the Christian religion, to which this nation of exhibitionists nominally belongs, is the inspiration for Carnival, a week in which the entire country gets drunk and naked.
One glance at a map of this nation solves the mystery of its obsession with patootie. Brazil thrusts its backside out into the Atlantic Ocean like the behind of a dancer, cleaved centrally by the Amazon, with one hand clasping the stripper pole of Central America, an open invitation to the rest of the globe to examine its musk, mystery and steamy tropical warmth.
Miss Bum Bum is Brazil, and Brazil is Miss Bum Bum. The finest behind in the land is the nation's icon. Makes you wonder how we got stuck with a lousy eagle.
The title, which comes with a cash prize and some serious endorsement opportunities, is not taken lightly in this hiney-centric nation. Scandal erupted when the owner of the eventual winning tushie accused the sweet-cheeked third-place finisher of bribing the judges in an effort to secure victory. This, to me, demonstrates the moral rectitude of that august panel—they could not be swayed by offers of free bum bum, of which the contestants had plenty, and presumably offered in their efforts not to have their behinds left behind. These judges did not surrender their principles. They demanded their payoffs in cash.
Miss Bum Bums do not win points by participating in tiresome talent contests or boring interviews like girls in retro beauty pageants such as Miss America or Miss Universe. There is no evening gown competition, for that would be pointless. The bum bum is all. Regional and state contests produce local winning buns, which are narrowed down (although narrowness is not a sought-after quality in the competition) to fifteen final asset-holders. Then the frenzy to select Brazil's most bodacious booty begins in earnest. It is said that competitions like American Idol are poorly attended sideshows in comparison to Miss Bum Bum, so highly does the Brazilian nation prize its reputation for stimulating derrieres.
The obsession of the Brazilian people with the female bottom began in Neolithic times, when primitive girls with primitive behinds crossed over the Bering Sea land bridge during the last Ice Age and headed south in an effort to find a climate warm enough to flash their fannies. Arriving in Brazil, they abandoned the furs that had kept them snug in their emigration from Eskimo country and used the abundance of local jungle vines to invent the g-string. The invasion of the place by Europeans a few centuries ago did not increase their proclivity to wear clothes. On the contrary, the Christian religion, to which this nation of exhibitionists nominally belongs, is the inspiration for Carnival, a week in which the entire country gets drunk and naked.
One glance at a map of this nation solves the mystery of its obsession with patootie. Brazil thrusts its backside out into the Atlantic Ocean like the behind of a dancer, cleaved centrally by the Amazon, with one hand clasping the stripper pole of Central America, an open invitation to the rest of the globe to examine its musk, mystery and steamy tropical warmth.
Miss Bum Bum is Brazil, and Brazil is Miss Bum Bum. The finest behind in the land is the nation's icon. Makes you wonder how we got stuck with a lousy eagle.
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