Today’s collection of web videos starts off oh-so-pleasantly with an amazing pole-dance routine. It isn’t flawless, but there are some awesomely athletic moves in there that left me wondering “How did she do that?” As well as “How can I get her to do that in my living room?”
Next we’ve got a football-in-the-round referee who may not be gay, but who is most definitely fabulous!
Hey, does anyone remember that little video that was going ’round a while back, kind of an indie thing, featured two girls and a cup or something? Yeah, that. Here’s a little behind-the-scenes footage that explains the planning that went into that webamatic masterpiece.
And we’ll close with something… well, honestly, I don’t really know what to say. Y’know all those insanely creative penis drawings from Superbad‘s credits? Imagine that same brand of perverse thinking applied to not just wangs, but poop, sexual assault, and Japanese gigantism fetishes, filtered through a Sega Genesis-era videogame sensibility. Basically, picture Road Rash reinvented as a side-scrolling trucker hentai.
And be aware: this probably isn’t the most offensive thing you’ve ever watched, but you’re still gonna see things you can’t unsee. For comparative purposes, it’s probably just about as unpleasantly fascinating as watching Oprah go to town on a Sybian.
Hi… nice to meet you. Can I call you “Bill”? Oh… Billy Ray it is, then. No, no… it’s fine. It’s just that I feel like I should be talking to the buck-toothed, trailer-dwelling, plumber-cracked spawn of some backwoods eugenics program when I address someone as “Billy Ray”. No offense.
Anyhoo… I think we all know why we’re here. This is going to be an awkward situation no matter what we do, so in my experience, the best approach is to just jump right in. I’ll start.
Billy Ray, you know the rules. You know that –as the father of an attractive teen girl– you have a single responsibility in her life. Just as a refresher, allow me to briefly turn this process over to Mr. Rock, who I believe sums matters up perfectly in a mere 22 seconds:
“Keep my baby off the pole,” indeed. That’s what it’s about, sir. The rest of the males in our society are working hard to get her on the pole, and you are the balancing influence that says, “Hey, maybe there are better ways to get attention.” You are the key to your daughter developing the tools she needs to make an informed decision between becoming a vice-president of marketing studies at General Electric and wiping a mix of jizz and Pabst off her ass in a champagne room at 2am.
(Allow me to hasten to mention that the latter scenario is not inherently inferior… this is about preserving options, not making moral judgements. Except with regard to you, Billy Ray. We’re definitely gonna judge you.)
So imagine everyone’s surprise when we spotted your little lady initially showing up like this at the 2009 Teen Choice Awards:
…and immediately following that up with a performance that looked like this:
See? Ice cream! That's innocent, right? Nothing more Disney than ice cream! And booty shorts. That's just good marketing, right there.
"Now I'd just like to take a moment to say 'fuck you, Nick Jonas,' you pencil dick. This pole has already given me more pleasure than you ever could."
Now, don’t get us wrong. To a large extent, you’re doing the world a favor here. If we track the Britney Spears Awesome-Jailbait-to-Insane-Nightmare Arc and match it up to sweet Miley, it rapidly becomes clear that we’re in for at least five years of increasingly exciting, erratic entertainment. (Did I say “erratic”? Sorry… “erotic”.) In fact, she may even be ahead of schedule; she could be dancing in a harem outfit with a snake next summer at this rate.
Artist's rendering, obviously. I mean, Miley's boobs will never be that big.
Let that image burn into your retinas for a moment, and then consider what little Smiley has been posting on the interwebz:
For all the people calling me the “next Britney” THANK U. I couldn’t ask for a better compliment
Says it all, does it not? Miley doesn’t even have the sense to spot a cautionary tale when it’s hitting her in the face like a crazy bald bitch with an umbrella. Do you really want a soul-patched jizz-tube draping himself all over your baby?
Take steps now, Mr. Cyrus, before your family’s gene pool is polluted by Federline 2.0 while you’re installing underwear verification monitors and spending your evenings wiping Cheetos dust off your girl’s chin.
