Miley Cyrus & Me Part 2; Poolside Reflections

Ours was a typical showbiz romance I suppose..

Ours was a typical showbiz romance I suppose..

MILEY & ME;

Our Secret Marriage

PART 2

me

POOLSIDE REFLECTIONS

“Why am I getting married again?”, I asked myself wearily

as I sat in a fold out lounge chair by the Villa’s Olympic-sized swimming-pool.

Perhaps it was just “wedding jitters”

but I was definitely having doubts.

I wasn’t even attracted to her physically. I mean, she was ok I suppose but her awkwardly aggressive displays of a kind of “autistic-sexuality” set my teeth on edge. Really I just felt sort of sorry for her. Foolishly I had the wistful hope that I could be a stabilising influence on the lass and maybe pass on some of the wisdom of my years, even if it was only, “Change the Bong water now and then goddammit! You’ll live longer that way, you little fool”.

Of course there was also my inherent moral weakness to be considered, that old fatal flaw that had me being swept along

like a spineless jellyfish every time some excitingly chaotic current came along to entertain me.

It’s not really my fault. I just have a very low

Boredom Threshold. (Indeed, if it wasn’t for the Heavy Medication the doctors make me take every day, I’d probably be setting myself on fire right now just to relieve the tedium of a slow Sunday afternoon.)

Yes, I’ll say this for Miley, I was never bored

when she was around.

hannah montana goes bad

Perhaps it was just the pool that depressed me, I reflected.

After all, the whole Villa had been wrapped around it,

so it was hard to escape its dysfunctional ambience.

It had been awhile since anyone had gone swimming though.

Pool usage had dropped right off since it had been filled

with Lemon Tapioca Pudding, after Miley had

a Flash of Creative Inspiration.

The Tapioca Pool was going to be used in some

vaguely “Conceptual” Video Clip, but Miley

got distracted by some other shiny object

and the Video never happened.

Meanwhile, forgotten, the Tapioca Pool kept ripening

in the sun. A deceptively solid-looking,

hard yellow crust had formed across the surface.

Several of the local stray-dogs and one of the monkey-bridesmaids had attempted to cross that seemingly solid surface,

but had plunged thru the thin skin into

the quicksand-like goo below and drowned.

You could still see the dark shadows where

their bodies hung suspended in the Tapioca.

In the middle of the pool, a single monkey paw

had broken thru the tar-like surface

in a last desperate bid for freedom

and remained there, stuck fast. Now it was

surrounded by an angry halo of buzzing flies.

AS I said, it had been awhile

since anyone went swimming.

*

Anyway, before you could go swimming you had to make your way past the minefield of broken glass and monkey shit splattered everywhere, courtesy of the bridesmaids, who,

though now sedated, dressed, crated up and ferried

to the Temple for tonight’s ceremony, had not gone

without a struggle.

At the other end of the pool, a mattress that had caught fire

and been dragged out of one of the bedrooms but not

properly extinguished, was still sluggishly smoldering,

giving the air an oily, dirty haze.

Apparently unconcerned, the mattress’s owner,

a heavy barbiturate user, had followed the mattress

and rescue team out to the pool area

and had subsequently curled up and gone

back to sleep again on the unburnt portion.

Or they might have been dead.

At that moment I didn’t much feel like

wading thru monkey shit to find out.

*

I could deal with all this, I thought.

I could even deal with reading the insane

and ugly rumours in Celebrity magazines,

like the one that said my affianced

had recently been removed by a New York gynecologist

from Lady Gaga’s uterus, where she had somehow

become lodged during the last tour. Or that

she always carried with her in a handbag , a jar

containing the foetus of her dead conjoined twin.

I could, reluctantly, deal with the constant, poisonous, whining presence of the entourage of Hollywood

white trash she trailed behind her like

the gaseous tail of a dysfunctional comet.

But I couldn’t deal with..

section deleted at insistence of Cyrus Trust Lawyers.

..so that, frankly, my affianced was starting

to give me the shits.

It was all “make sweeet love to me, Jerry” one minute

and the next it’s “Jerry!

Suck the Scorpion poison out of my butt”.

And, tho it might seem petty in my position,

me being a “kept man” and all,

but it pissed me off that she still

couldn’t remember my name.

As well, she had a range of irritating nervous tics

that you typically see in the mannerisms repertoire

of obsessive-compulsives, or people who have done

too many Methylamphetamines.

Like the way she’d pull her hair out one strand

at a time till bald patches started appearing,

or the way she’d start picking away

at the imaginary bugs under her skin,

over and over again

until she started to bleed.

It got to the point where, as the only responsible adult

in the Cyrus Compound not bound by contract

to acquiesce to her every transient whim,

I felt that I really should do something.

So I stole a Taser from one of the Security guys and warned Miley I was going to demonstrate my Grandmotherly Kindness by zapping her with it every time she started picking at those damn scabs again.

But I’m a sentimental old fool,

and when it became apparent, after

giving her a few trial tastes of the Taser,

that she still wouldn’t be able to stop herself,

I was too soft hearted to continue

with the Aversion Therapy.

(Even though I must admit

I sort of enjoyed the little squealing noises

she made whenever I shocked her.

I know. It was cruel,

but I’d had a hard day and was feeling

kind of irritable myself.)

miley_cyrus_lights_blunt_mtv_emas_2013_1980b9q-1980b9u

So instead I used an old trick I learned

from way back when I was working as

a Psychiatric Nurse. This technique was useful

for a number of situations, for example;

if we needed to stop some retarded-vegetable-lunatic

from persistently scratching themselves

(or “touching”other patients).

So, waiting till she passed out for one of

the ten minute spells of unconsciousness

that passed for “sleep” in her world,

I took the opportunity to pull socks over her hands and wrists,

tying string securely around her wrists

to prevent her taking them off.

She freaked out at first when she woke up

and thought she’d lost all her fingers to leprosy

or some other exotic, foreign type of disease

she’d vaguely heard rumours about.

But I calmed her down by sewing buttons onto the socks

and turning them into sock-puppets.

After that she was quite happy with the new arrangement,

and could amuse herself for hours conducting imaginary conversations in squeaky voices.

If anything she became a little too attached to Alice and Jeffrey

(the sock puppets) and increasingly chose to communicate

with the outside world only through their agency. Actually,

it was starting to freak me out; it was a little like

being in one of those old horror movies where

the ventriloquist’s body starts being taken over

by the malevolent demon-dummy’s spirit;

Clack! clack! clack!

The wooden jaw snaps shut!

My Fiancée’s doll-like,

glossy black eyes roll in my direction and..

santa Muerte

..I wake screaming from my nightmare,

covered in sweat.

Miley’s tame Puerto Rican dwarf,

a short but menacing presence, was standing,

next to me. Despite the absence of horses

in the Cyrus Compound, she was wearing Jodhpurs,

knee-length boots and carried the riding crop

with which she’d awoken me.

Clack! Clack! Clack!

She rapidly rapped the arm of my recliner

again with the crop.

“HEY! You! Gringo piece of shit! Get up!

Time to go marry Miss Miley!

Helicopter hee–er for last time..just you and me porca diablo! (spits) Everyone waiting at temple for you.”

CLACK!

She viciously rapped the riding crop

on the chair-arm one more time for emphasis..

“You better be good husband to Miss Miley

or I cut you bad Gringo.”

She strode off towards the landing pad muttering something about someone called Santa Muerte. Possibly a relative of hers,

who knows? Who cares.

All I knew was that I suddenly realised I’d lost

my last chance to escape and slip away unnoticed.

Now Miley was waiting impatiently for me

at the temple, and I knew the dwarf, out of pure spite, would

never let me escape

even though she loathed my presence.

The dwarf had been trouble from the start

and now I had to share a helicopter ride

with her in a Third-World country.

Could be trouble coming up ahead, I thought wisely to myself,

and plotted accordingly..

Miley's psychotically jealous dwarf was trouble from the start

Miley’s psychotically jealous dwarf was trouble from the start

*

TUNE IN NEXT WEEK FOR WHAT WILL HOPEFULLY BE THE FINAL INSTALMENT OF;
MILEY & ME Pt3; Our Secret Wedding

***

PiercingJPG

***

tai chi hand strawberry circle

The Reverend Hellfire..

..They seek him here, they seek him there..

***

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~ by reverendhellfire on August 3, 2014.

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