Miley Cyrus; desperately trying to fill the Void left by the Reverend’s absence.
Miley & Me; Our Forbidden Love
Miley Cyrus rang me up again the other night.
“I’ve been thinking about you Jerry,” she said.
“My name’s not Jerry,” I reminded her,
but I don’t think she heard me because she was already babbling on about how boring Bali was and she heard that my country was, like, right next door, so she’d sent a helicopter to pick me up so we could have some Fun again and how I had
47 minutes to get to the airport for lift off.
Actually I had been kind of expecting a phone call of this nature, ever since I’d heard that her World Tour was lurching towards my part of the globe.
Regular readers of Sunday Sermons may recall my first encounter with young Miley, courtesy of a local radio station competition. [ http://reverendhellfire.wordpress.com/2013/11/17/a-date-with-miley-cyrus/ ]
Our “date” had quickly spiraled out of control that night, and after a series of bizarre and disconnected episodes, a posse of Celebrity-Bodyguards and enraged Zookeepers had finally cornered us in the Flamingo Enclosure
at the local Wildlife Sanctuary.
They separated us after that and took her away, yet it seems I had somehow made an impression on the young lass in our brief time together. Clearly she felt she needed the stabilising influence of an older, more mature man to counterweight the influence of the usual pack of white-trash flunky yahoos
that surrounded her.
Ah yes, her Entourage..What a pack of rats!
For a start, they were worse than footballers in their seeming inability to enter a nightclub or bar without ending up on page three of the local scadal-sheet tabloids.
None of them could apparently do drugs either without ending up in Hospital or in Jail. Seriously. They’d smoke a couple of joints and drop an aspirin
and the next thing you know they’re on a respirator
being wheeled into the Betty Ford Clinic.
The week after that they’re on Oprah Winfrey with their “inspirational” Rehabilitation Story, and a best-selling Tell-All Expose of their three months as Miley’s close confidante and intimate friend. These people were parasitic scum, and I made a mental note to shift most of the blame
for Miley’s “shocking deterioration” onto them
when it came time to write my own memoirs.
I was worried that Miley’s sweet, simple nature would be corrupted by the Music Industry
I must admit I was a little apprehensive on the flight to Bali. For one thing there was the suspiciously bulging boogie-board bag Miley had asked me to pick up from “her friends place” on the way to the airport. Her “friend” (a heavily tattooed Japanese man missing several finger joints) had seemed a bit twitchy to me and now the bag sat on the floor next to me, an ominous presence radiating foreboding.
Also, I had realised that I didn’t have my passport with me. So I called her on the helicopters radio, but Miley just told me I didn’t need a passport because the President of Indonesia came to her concert in Jakarta and was a really good friend and I just had to say I was her guest.
I wasn’t entirely reassured by this so when the pilot was distracted, I took the opportunity to push the bag out the door with my foot somewhere over the Coral Sea. Miley would be pissed off about it, but I was counting on her limited concentration span and short-term memory problems to get us past that hurdle.
As it worked out though, the chopper took me straight to Miley’s villa, obviating the need for a passport, and the villa was already so chock full of drugs that no-one even asked about the bag. The pilot just stalked off without a word to get drunk.
Anyway, everyone at the Villa was preoccupied
with Miley’s current enthusiasim,
our upcoming Marriage.
I must admit I blinked when Miley started introducing me to people as, “Jerry, my Fiancé“, and telling them we were getting married later tonight at midnight, but I was too polite to contradict her in front of other people.
I mean, I liked the girl, but even by music industry standards this seemed a bit hurried.
Also, call me paranoid, but I got the feeling
that not all of the guests were as thrilled
as Miley was about our upcoming nuptials.
“Don’t forget who’s the centre of attention round here,” she lectured the lackeys
Later, when we had ducked off into one of the Villas numberless, well appointed bathrooms,, between snorting long lines of cocaine off a mirror and sucking my tounge, Miley told me what was going on. It was all very murky and complicated, but the gist of it was that Miley had invented our upcoming marriage in order to get herself out of several emotional and legal entanglements she’d somehow found herself committed to.
Funnily enough, she confessed coyly to me, the more she told people about our impending imaginary marraige, the more she came to look forward to it,
until finally she had the Epiphany that she loved me and that we were destined to spend the rest of our lives together.
Naturally there were some disappointed parties going about the place as a result, and some resentment had even been expressed toward me.
“Teeheeheehee-hee..and then Dougie said he wanted to shove a knife into your guts! Teeehee-hee! He’s so jealous!”
she giggled girlishly,
her face covered in a mask of talcum powder and coke.
In the afternoon we went driving around the Balinese backwaters on a hired motorcycle, looking for a suitably exotic looking temple to get married in. We found one after we had an accident with a water buffalo, which left the water buffalo relatively undamaged but the bike a total right off.
It was while I was paying off the water buffalo owner for his suffering and mental anguish, that Miley wandered off and by chance discovered the most decrepit looking
temple we had seen yet.
In parts barely one stone stood on another.
Elsewhere the weather-worn blocks were held up by a scaffolding of vines,
and the whole place was infested with a territorial tribe
of bad-tempered and probably rabid monkeys.
Nonetheless it was apparently still functioning as a recognised temple,
occupied and operated by a single, wizened, half-naked priest
who was happy to marry us at midnight,
and very happy to be generously paid for providing such a dubious service..
While we waited for the helicopter to pick us up, Miley and I retired to a nearby, suitably romantic bamboo glade by a stream.
There, to the gentle sound of the bamboo rustling, and the deep, lowing
of the water-buffalo, we made sweet love
in the afternoon, in anticipation of consummating our vows
later that night but mainly to pass the time.
Only the constant whining of swarms of mosquitoes spoiled our Serenity, but as we were both full of toxic chemicals, few chose to bite us, and those that did soon died.
“An insect bit me,” she said,” Can you suck out the poison?”
Once we got back to the villa, the rest of the afternoon was consumed by the preparations
for the evening’s Bacchanalian rout.
Dougie moped and scowled around the fringes, trying to bring people down, but I paid him no mind. I had already paid a local Shaman to poison him, and though the Shaman had been drunk when I hired him, he did seem to know his business,
and my guide expressed full confidence
in his ability to resolve my fiance’s
Events took an unexpected turn when, after a last minute tantrum ,Miley replaced all the bridesmaids with monkeys, sewing them all into intricate, miniature, Balinese wedding-costumes. The tiny, ancient Hindu priest didn’t seem to mind. Miley had paid him in Opium before the ceremony, and his wrinkled face had been wreathed in smiles ever since.
I didn’t mind either. Having a bunch of rabid monkey bridesmaids screeching and pissing all over the place was a welcome respite from the antics of the white-trash, bleached and brazilianed bimbos they’d replaced.
At least the monkeys weren’t on nitrous oxide.
On the down side though it did mean there were now several disaffected and disgruntled “former associates” gone
and they were probably already making
sleazy deals to sell us out to various
competing Media Corporations
and Narcotics Agencies.
And Dougie hadn’t been seen for awhile either.
I was hoping the Shaman had been at work
but I couldn’t be sure without seeing a body..
Tune in for Part. 2 next week;
“The Pink Wedding.”
The Reverend Hellfire is a practising Performance Poet, the President of the Kurilpa Institute of Creativity and an ordained Minister of the Church of Spiritual Humanists AND the Church of the Universe.
He’s a very strange man but basically harmless if you don’t bother him