Other little girls have followed the same route to notoriety, only to end up having to go into rehab or get photographed in actual acts of child abuse in order to get on the front pages of the Internet. Not Miley. I cannot remember a day in recent months that her tongue has not stuck out from the first page of AOL or Yahoo! Portals even fluffier carry a dozen Miley stories, generally short on prose and long on skin, every day.
Needless to say, I ache for this kind of notoriety. I resolve to live my day the Miley way.
I go topless. Everywhere. Mostly people don't pay attention, since I live in San Diego, the City of Bare-Chested Joggers. The people at that funeral I attended seemed disturbed, and for that I apologize. They should realize that it was the only event I had actually been invited to that day.
I twerk. Vigorously. After a few minutes, everybody watching me twerk urges me to stop, except for my chiropractor.
I try to buy some flesh-colored, skin tight two-piece dance outfits to wear at an awards show. The man at the store could have just said they didn't make them in my size. He didn't have to add, "For aesthetic reasons."
I leave my tongue hanging out of my mouth constantly. People try to force me into ambulances, on the assumption I am having a stroke.
Swinging naked on a wrecking ball makes me realize that Miley and I have different equipment where the gigantic, very cold chain meets the groin. I feel pinched, to say the least.
I lick a sledgehammer. Just once. That's plenty.
I fire off a couple of nasty tweets to Sinead O'Conner, but when she replies, we start comparing notes on the best way to shave our heads.
I end up home, popping open a cold ale like any other day. I realize that in order to live Miley, you have to be Miley. But I'm not discouraged.
Maybe Rolling Stone will call anyway.