Princess Professes

I was flipping through the channels on my teevee the other night when I came across the Miss Universe pageant. I’m not going to yell and stomp about what an alarming and significant cultural phenomena this is. Obviously, anything on CBS and hosted by Sinbad isn’t an event that exactly has a lot of truck with our collective cultural psyche. And then the announcer said something that got me thinkin’ (it’s a chronic problem). Here’s the thing: the winner of the Miss Universe pageant is actually awarded a golden apple. You will have to excuse me while I expound upon why this tidbit got me thinkin’.

For anyone who doesn’t already know it here’s the abbreviated mythology behind the whole apple thing. Long ago when gods lived on mountains and had sex Zeus threw a wing ding for all the gods. All but one. They all agreed not to invite that trouble maker Eris, goddess of all things a little too darkly mischievous. Feeling snubbed and knowing a great set up when she saw one, Eris fashioned a golden apple with KALLISTI (for the fairest) engraved on it. She rolled it into the fete and of course all the goddesses present began to fight over it. Zeus decided that a mortal should settle the squabble and since all the good panelists had exclusive deals with the Iron Chef he went with Paris. Naturally, the three goddesses concluded they would have to bribe him. Hera offered him money, Athena offered success and renown as a great warrior, and Aphrodite offered the most beautiful woman on earth. So he took the girl (duh) but she unfortunately had another gig at the time as queen of Sparta and wife of Menelaus. For more on the matter I refer you to the case of Greeks vs. Trojans.

Which brings me back to the pageant. The women and their copious breasts bounced and twirled while a voice over read their bios. They all planned to be doctors, lawyers, dentists- one actually planned to run for Senate. They wanted to help the children of the world (not have them, mind you) in their spare time while they were not busy being smart or bungee jumping or trekking in the Himalayas. Several enjoyed horseback riding (of course I would never imply that there is something darkly sexual about a woman harnessing the wild animal power of a horse with a combination of womanly force and charisma; there is obviously some other reason pre-pubescent girls are so universally drawn to the cult of the horse). So this apparently is what we expect (or suspect) of the most perfect woman. She has the power to do whatever she wants- the power to conquer, control, and by extension, destroy.

But as we all know the apple awarded to the fairest is poisoned (cf Sleeping Beauty) and everyone harbors a secret hatred for the prettiest girl in the room. Pretty girls don’t have real problems (obviously—they have that secret goddess power). We revel in blonde jokes and delight in their empty headed answers to those deep, philosophical questions the contestants have to answer. I personally get a serious case of outraged giggles when Miss America trots out her cause to the National Press Club every year. We are all relieved when the future Senator poses for Penthouse, that whore! And by the way, those tits are so fake! The woman we seek, to worship, to love, to be, we seek solely for the purpose of destroying her. The great goddesses have become nothing but ravenously jealous, manipulative, petty girls squabbling over who is the fairest. Interestingly enough it is this pettiness that brought war, strife, and sin into the world, everything that makes us human and great and heroic and chaotic nothingness (see Bible, Iliad).

All that out of some stupid prank another goddess, Eris, or Nature’s simple joke of sexuality, of body, of earthliness. All Paris’ great aspirations to wealth and fame bow down before the desires of the body, all things human are laid to waste by death. In short, long live the objectification of women! I might also mention that the question the contestants had to answer was what would they say to the protesters outside the pageant. I know this is what Miss India meant to say. That ditz. I can’t believe she won. What a joke.