October 18, 2015
Did you hear? Miley Cyrus is going to perform naked at a concert, and the audience will be naked as well. Me, I wouldn’t go to a Miley concert if she wore three layers of Farm and Fleet flannel clothing, galoshes, a chastity belt, and a hair net. But you’re not me—so you may have already ordered your tickets.
Picture thousands of naked butts planted in concert seats and squirming. Imagine spilling beer on your boys or Coke on your weasel or buttered popcorn on your boobs or Dots on your dingus or your girlfriend comparing your hot dog to your puppy dog. Think of someone getting up to pee, saying “Excuse me,” and shuffling her naked derriere past your face.
Miley’s vagina is all over the internet already. Who hasn’t seen it? I encountered the shaved, down-under mouth when I thought I was typing “cirrus,” into the computer, as in cirrus clouds; I wanted to check the science of cloud cover. Instead I got “Cyrus,” and Miley’s rawish, sunburned-looking fun part popped up—literally.
Some once little girls in my life forced me to watch Miley’s kid show back in the day. They would shout, “Mil-eee, Mil-eee,” and twerk their tiny hips, and I knew then the world was going straight to hell. Billy Ray, you got some ’splainin’ to do.
I once went to a woman actor friend’s play, something to do with Nazis. She asked me to come as her guest, and left me a front row seat. She told me she played a degenerate Third Reich monster in love with a Gestapo officer. She left out that she would stand right in front of where I was sitting, peel off her clothes and fondle her pudendum. I thought my head was going to explode—in a bad way.
After the show, I asked my friend, why didn’t you warn me you were going to get naked? Because I wasn’t, she told me, that was “Lotte” (or some such Kraut name). This is why I never dated a fellow actor. They’ll poop onstage and say it was that other gal. And nudity onstage is creepy, unlike nudity on screen—think of actor Julianne Moore, whose nether region has been seen many, many, many, many times.
When my play “Moonlight Daring Us to Go Insane” was produced at the Body Politic Theatre in Chicago, I noticed that the actress who played my mother as a girl was sitting on the Depression-era set in a gingham dress and opening and closing her legs when she wasn’t talking, and she wasn’t wearing 30’s undies. Would you want to see your mommy in bikini underpants? I complained to the director, who gave a note to the actor, who came backstage and told me I was repressed. She said she’d wear 30’s underpants if I’d put them on her, an honor which I declined. Onstage that night, she wore no underwear.
So Miley is just the embodiment of a movement begun long ago, like biblical long ago, like Bathsheba long ago. Once dear Eve ate the apple, it was inevitable that someone shave their meowster, to cover up the fact that they couldn’t sing. Or couldn’t act.
Or couldn’t be a competent businesswoman. Next up: presidential hopeful Carly Fiorina.
Excuse me while I throw up the sky.
