(Don’t) pick me: I’m not even a contender
Don’t give me those Miley Cyrus tickets! I don’t need them, I don’t crave them and I would only feel obligated to use them if you gave them to me. There are far more deserving people who have lost baby fat or 6 year molars, are selling lemonade to support their father’s ESPN habit or are on life support having suffered horrible potato peeler or safety scissor life-altering accidents.
I, fortunately, do not fit into any of these categories so please do not even consider me a contender.
I only know who Miley Cyrus is because I saw her on Oprah. Cute gal, probably doesn’t realize the immensity of her father-managing, agent-auditing wad of cash. Bouncing across the stage with the energy of an Australian marsupial, she seems to effortlessly draw you in to her adolescent world of short skirts, knee socks and megawatt smile while bursting forth in every teen’s soon-to-be ring tones. I had to keep checking Wikipedia just to find out more about her, but please, don’t take this as an effort to win these tickets. If you gave them to me I’d have to endure that bunch of smurf-inspired blue guys, Glenn Beck’s litany of American values, ear shattering, blinding fireworks, and, of course, Ms. Cyrus.
The other entries are truly heart wrenching and so deserving of these sought-after tickets. That dang lucky winner will find those hot little chunks of cardstock in their sticky little hands, waiting to be forever memorialized on some patriotic themed, metal star and pom-pom fringed scrapbook page with the glorious night of July 4, 2008 embedded in the gray matter of their tiny prepubescent skulls. In years to come I’m sure they’ll recount, in minutia, every hair strand placement on Cyrus’ head, the color of stripes on her high top Nikes and can sing, with hairbrush as microphone, every well-placed lyric of the pop teen’s repertoire.
Please, please — give them to the most deserving, creative person.