I'm quite fond of beauty pageants. I think they represent what is best and true and wicked awesome about our world. They rock hard. There's no denying the eroticism of women strutting around in swimsuits and heels in front of an ugly audience, made up mostly of their family members and rich white people. Beauty queens are talented individuals with big flowing hair and terrific mams. They care about things like the importance of a well-balanced breakfast and how hitting people is wrong. Beauty queens are sharp as tacks too, why even a select few know the difference between a comma and a period. They're that good, my peeps. These women deserve to be put up on a pedestal and exhibited to people in bad suits and gaudy dresses. I love them.

Then there are the judges, the cream of the crop of the entertainment business and women-judging community. I'm often stunned by the star-power represented in the judges' circle. It's hard not to be by the likes of Meshach Taylor, Mark Gastineau, and Vecepia from 'Survivor IV'. The task is always a difficult one. They have so many questions to ponder. What makes one contestant hotter and sexier than another? How do the shiny buttons work on my judging computer? What happened to my career? Yes, the judges are under a tremendous amount of pressure, and how they hold up and stay cool under fire is what separates them from us, my homies and homettes.

I'm all about beauty and I'm all about pageants. That's why today my heart aches. Whither Miss World. Whither her beauty and talent and over-whitened teeth. Violence, oppression, and death have shoved her aside and taken center-stage. Worse even, violence, oppression, and death look slutty in their bikinis, and their little speeches about terror and revenge are cliche and formulaic. There is no place for violence, oppression, and death in a beauty pageant.

What are they thinking? They should have their own contest someplace else, like Baghdad or Kabul or Austin. Let my queens be. Let them strut their modified bods, sing fourth rate versions of Celine Dion songs, and speak inarticulately of rainbows and hand holding and world peace. Ah, peace. I'm not down with V.O.D., I'm up with P-E-A-C-E. Peace! That's what it's all about. And hot ass. Is that so wrong? Peace and hot ass! Hot South American ass, as they are always strong contestants in the competition. I still dream of Ninibeth Leal, Miss Venzuela, 1991. Oh, how I am filled with dreams of her beauty and funny American accent. The Miss World pageant must not be moved! The beauty pageant united will never be defeated! We shall overcome, my dawgs and dawgettes! So violence, put away your guns! Oppression, put away your intolerance! Death, put away your bikini, black is not back, and especially not on the stage of Miss World!