I’ve always viewed beauty pageants as some fixed mob game of favoritism. Miami Beach Towing is run with more integrity and honesty than your typical beauty pageant. When you break it down, you’re just watching a bunch of pretty girls/women answer questions in various articles of clothing. Ask any straight guy; that’s the LAST thing we want to see women do.
I had to go to this shit show because my younger sister was competing in it. Before I continue with this review, let me tell you a little something a woman said to me in line for the restroom. The restroom, by the way, being ONE unisex restroom. Really, guys? It’s a fucking beauty pageant full of moms and grandmothers in the audience yearning for youth, you really think each and every woman who enters isn’t going to spend a solid 10 minutes “powdering their nose”? Anyway, I’m in line and this woman walks up behind me and asks, “is this the line for the bathroom?” Yes. “This whole thing is a fucking circus.” How right she was. Allow me to explain.
We’re talking about Hispanic people setting timelines…
The event was slated to begin at 8 PM. We’re talking about Hispanic people setting timelines, so I expected 8-ish. 9. It started at NINE-fucking-o’clock. How does one overshoot a schedule by a full hour? I expected much more professionalism from the pageant being held at a plastic surgery warehouse (it’s Doral). So it started an hour late, mostly because of all the goddamn sponsors that required shout outs. When it did begin, the host of the night, Bernhard Seifert, regaled us with his wonderful abilities. By “regaled” I mean “tortured”, and by “wonderful” I mean “lack of”. You’d think with a name like Bernhard Seifert he’d be able to speak some English (or rather, German, but whatever) but it turns out homeboy is just one of those conquered Mexicans. His jokes fell flat and his voice was obnoxious. About the only time I laughed at anything he said was when he plugged his own website (actormexicano.com).
People held up signs and hooted like they were at a Justin Bieber concert. With that said, I was guilty of cheering obnoxiously for my little sister if only to counteract the asshole with the vuvuzela. Oh, I didn’t mention there was an asshole with a vuvuzela?
What is a vuvuzela?
Yes, 2010 South Africa World Cup audible-waterboarding instrument of torture which made me wish apartheid was still a thing was being used by some Cuban asshole not three meters away from me. That fucking instrument singlehandedly made me hate black people for a month. I hope you’re happy with yourself, Cuban guy, because now I’m rooting for communism.
But the craziest thing of the night was the entertainer. They had some girl sing a song early on, and she wasn’t bad and I don’t remember her name so I have no ill will toward her. However, this fucking Argentine douche was so powerfully ridiculous I can never forget him. His name is Ariel Nan, and not even all the hair products he uses could hold his act together.
What does he look like, so I can hate him?
He comes out looking like a gayer Ricky Martin, and I’m already annoyed because we’re an hour behind schedule on a Sunday. Right off the bat you know this guy is a tool just by the way he presents himself, but whatever. He banters a bit with the host and hostess, and then he starts to sing. His song sounds like something Carlos Ponce would sing at gunpoint, so I’m just waiting for it to end. Within, like, 20 seconds into his song, he just stops singing. Flat-out stops. He has the balls to say some bullshit like, “sorry, but I need more energy from you guys in order to keep going. Come on, give me more energy.” The reality is he forgot the words to his own fucking song. He makes his way backstage, presumably to look up the lyrics on his phone or to fire his manager, then he comes back out to a mix of cheers and laughter. He begins his shitty song once more and in the same exact spot as last time, he stops AGAIN. This time he didn’t try to play it off like it was somehow the audience’s fault as the crowd starts laughing at him.
He comes out looking like a gayer Ricky Martin…
The milf two seats to my left looks at me and mouths out the words “oh my God” while I return the “I know, right?” That was the reaction from most of the audience. Pity + shame + laughter + annoyance. The third time he started the song he managed to get through it, so I figured that was the end of that. Nope. Later between announcing the winners of Miss Teen (I neglected to mention they had 13-year-olds in bikinis alongside the Miss Doral women) they brought this scumbag back out and he sang another shitty, off-key song about love or whatever. If I ever played the “marry, fuck, kill” game and the choices were Hitler, Genghis Khan, and Ariel Nan… well, let’s just say I wouldn’t kill Hitler.
Miraculously, the winner of the pageant happens to be the only girl whose hair and makeup was done perfectly by the same person who did everyone else’s hair and makeup like shit. It’s also the girl who they held a cocktail party for a couple of weeks before. Also the girl whose family was working the event and sponsored it substantially. Also the girl who was the least bit surprised when she was announced the winner. Either she’s had more facelifts than Joan Rivers and can’t raise her eyebrows or she was privy to info long before it was given. The girl who by all accounts should’ve won, some Brazilian chick who knows the meaning of “pandering to the audience”, got slighted by a rigged competition.
When it was all said and done, it was already Monday. You see, I was there for four fucking hours, and this crap didn’t end until midnight. The first thing my sister said to me after it was over was, “sorry for asking you guys to come here.” I forgive her for that, but I’m still going to call her “loser” for a few more weeks.