A Thing of Beauty Pageant

[Okay, so although this is mostly a political blog, sometimes I and the other contributors have to distract ourselves with other things, or else all of our heads would explode. Hence, we occasionally write about rugby drinking games or homophobia on American Idol. For some people, this probably makes the blog more enjoyable. For others, they wonder why we’ve suddenly lost our minds when such posts appear. To that latter group, I ask for your indulgence. Consider the following a necessity to stave off the therapy I would require if I never thought or wrote about anything besides politics.]

I am not a pageant-watcher. I am, however, an Oscars-watcher, and that is, by any definition, the biggest pageant of the year, chock full of frozen-smiled women in alternatingly beautiful and disastrous dresses, men in all but identical suits (bless you, Johnny Depp; bless you, Sam Jackson), tears of joy, tears of disappointment, desperate attempts to look happy for one’s competitor after s/he’s just stolen the glorious golden prize out from under you, and plenty of knit-browed faces muttering some bitchy snark suddenly breaking into an embarrassed grin upon the realization they’re on camera. So why would I need to watch some dumb old pageant like Mrs. World?

Well, that’s just stinkin’ thinkin’, as it turns out. Because failure to watch WE’s presentation of the Mrs. World 2006 pageant left me dependent on the always-reliable FourFour to fill me in on The Grandest Television Debacle of All Time.

First of all, Alan Thicke, reeking, as usual, of the faint scent of perv. Why am I convinced that “fulfilling your obligations” as Mrs. World starts with a backstage blowjob for the creepy Canuck? Second of all, a flying, crown-bearing cherub. I need to check Revelations, but I’m fairly sure that kid is a sign of the Apocalypse. Third—and best—of all, they crowned the wrong fucking woman. OMG—the drama, the tears, the melting mascara! Help me, Jeebus!

The nightmare unfolded in Russia’s Oktriabrskii Theater; according to Thicke, the "monumental Oktriabrskii Theater,” a classification a FourFour commenter agrees is correct “if ‘monumental’ means ‘hideous Stalinist pile in desperate need of cleaning and renovation,’” thusly answering my question, “Why was the Mrs. World pageant being held in a high school gym?”

From here, all I can tell you is: just watch it. It is truly a thing to behold, from the other contestants following the lead of the evidently brain-damaged sash-bearer, to some sidestage heavy completely freaking out on her, to the backstage breakdowns, to the insane “redo” where flying crazyangelchild flies once again and Mrs. Russia assumes her rightful position as Mrs. World, rubbing it in on her “Royal Walk” with a hip-swinging strut that launched a thousand (or however many contestants there are) visions of spiking her vodka with hemlock. Perfection, my sweets. Simply perfection.

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