Friday, September 18, 2009

The Pedophile's Paradox, or "Woody Allen's Dilemma"

There's really only four types of men in the world:
  1. Gay men, who are hereby exempt from the following discussion about Miley Cyrus
  2. Men like Matthew McConaughey's character David Wodderson in 1993's Dazed and Confused who are willing and even eager to sleep with underage girls like Miley Cyrus
  3. Nice men, who only grudgingly admit that if legality were not an issue and consent given, they would indeed have sex with Miley Cyrus, and
  4. Men like me.
This last group is the most interesting, because we are in fact a brainwashed hybrid of classes 2 and 3. Depending on the air and the mood, we may play to either extreme as the conversation dictates. However this vacillating belies a core inner belief that we must be led to, much more like our class 3 brothers.

Personally, I do not like Miley Cyrus. At all. It's nothing personal, I'm sure she's a very nice person, but she just sort of embodies everything I loath about pop culture.
  • She's a manufactured celebrity
  • Her talent is likewise augmented electronically and overshadows the (already weak) musical content of her songs
  • She's encouraged to remain pure, which essentially makes her come off dumb.
  • She is the epitome of eroticised adolescence
Also, her weird little half-accent is really hard to understand if you've lost some of your low-end hearing but, hey, I was the one who thought taking band for eight years was an easy-A with no ill effects.

But here's Allen's Dilemma in action:

As much as I loath her on principle, I would still totally bone Miley Cyrus. I know, I'm shocked too. As much as I hate pop and country, both can be catchy. As much as I hate processed vocals and that wavering, arpegiated glissando crap from bad singers who can't hold a steady note, the processing makes it sound passable. Good even.

And so here's the thing: I can't out-and-out hate Miley Cyrus for the image she was bred to wear; that'd be wrong of me philosophically and that would make me no better than the executive board of DisneyTM®C.

Sadly, If I were to meet Ms. Cyrus on the street, in a crowded New York coffee shop say, and she were to not be in Hannah Mode, perhaps in the trailing end of a 15 minute respite from personal assistants and in dire need of a 3/4-caf latte with extra foam and a hazelnut biscotto, I would be forced to treat her like a normal human being who just happens to have great hair and eyes, a sharp chin, puffy eye-cheeks with high underlying bone structure, short stature, a somewhat raspy voice and about 90% of my other listed features for the categorically perfect girl.

I would be forced to play it cool, hating this poor girl's image so much that I am incapable of becoming starstruck. This would of course endear me to her and my own natural wit and dry humor will seal the deal as I charmingly force her to wait behind but manage to silently get her order to come out with mine because I know the barista so well. I will then walk out with an amazing story because I outfoxed a teen pop sensation in the art of looking awesome.

Unfortunately, this clearly leads to the worst-case scenario of her tracking me down and wacky hijinks ensuing as we star in the worst romantic comedy since Kelly Clarkson made that movie with that guy who didn't win.

No matter what, the result is still the same. I would absolutely not sleep with Miley Cyrus, if only because she's 16 or something and she Hannah Montana stands for everything I hate about pop culture.

However if I ever met her it seems pretty obvious that she would become infatuated with me and I would basically be forced to follow in the footsteps of the great deflowering D-Bags who cam before me: Justin Timberlake, Wilmer Valderrama, Woody Allen and Billy Ray Cyrus.

There's just no way around it.

So, Miley dear, if you can hear me, for your own sake sweetheart, do yourself a favor. Stay far far away from me. I'll only break your heart by wearing wife beaters all day and then starting a solo career that eclipses you after your three failed marriages and the mental breakdown that follows the total self realization of a pop icon.

Also, if that last bit made me sound like forbidden fruit I should also warn you I've eaten cute baby animals and I might have picked up the clap from either Miranda Cosgrove or Demi Lovato. It's kind of hard to tell which when you're all in one big pile like that.

There was actually a more apropos demotivator but it was staged and sort of gave away more than I liked.

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