When my best chum and I were budding teens, the Miss America Pageant was required viewing.
Bert Parks, oozing with oleaginous charm, was the genial host of this affair, which was reminiscent of a livestock show. Old Bert put rows of corn-fed maidens through their paces while we snickered.
The show had dull moments. The talent competition was tepid. After all, nobody played “God Bless America” on the kazoo. How boring!
The swimsuit competition was another story. Those were not our mothers’ cleavages. We were mystified at the amount of backstage area we could see through those rows of legs. There wasn’t a pair of thwacking thighs among them.
All through the night, we voiced our scathing critiques. After all, we were the gorgeous ones.
Finally, the winner was crowned and Bert did his rousing rendition of “the Song.” We gleefully performed our own voiceovers:
“There she is – a Mess America!”
“There she is – your schlemiel.”
The winner, awash in tears and mascara, turned out to be the one we had dubbed “The Smiling Elk.”
How beastly of us! (Smirk.)
