Friday, October 4, 2013



Miley Cyrus is on the hotel bed. She's curled up and crying. I move her head on to my lap and run my fingers through her hair.

I tell her, “I was nineteen the first time I heard about Terry Richardson. My roommate and I took a road trip from Santa Cruz to Los Angeles. I wanted to model for some photographer I met on the internet. My roommate wanted to fuck his MySpace girlfriend.

“We only had one car. So my roommate dropped me off at the photographer's loft. I said I'd spend the night.

“There were other boys at the loft. Some of them lived there. All of them were models. One told me that he worked at Abercrombie & Fitch in between his auditions for GAP and various surf wear companies. He got a call in the middle of our conversation. It ended with him crying and telling the person on the other end that he'd spent a lot of money fixing his teeth.

“Eventually, the photographer pulled me aside. He showed me a copy of Terry Richardson's new book, Terryworld. The first page was a picture of Terry's cum splattered on a pair of tits. 'I want to make something edgy,' said the photographer. 'Something like this.'

“I'd brought a slave hood with me. You know, one of those leather S&M things that laces up the back and has zippers over the mouth and eyes? I had used it for an art project. And I liked to masturbate while wearing it. I thought it might impress the photographer.

“He told me to put on the hood and I did. Then he opened the mouth zipper and took some pictures of me. 'You want to be my slave?' he asked. I don't remember if I answered. But the photographer pulled out his cock and said, 'Suck it.'

“It's possible that I put my mouth on him. But I don't really remember. I only recall that he kept taking pictures and telling me to look sad. I tried my best to be terrified, and then it actually happened. My mouth was open and shaking. The photographer kept yelling, 'Don't look so happy!' I think it's because he couldn't see my eyes.

“I was like one of those chimpanzees you see on television. They always have big grins, but it's because they're freaking out. I was freaking out when the photographer chained me to a piece of metal on his roof. Even when he jerked me off. Especially when he came all over the hood.

“My room mate didn't answer his phone that night. So I was stuck at the loft. I know it doesn't really have anything to do with Terry Richardson. But maybe you can relate. Maybe that's why you're crying.

“Fuck you,” says Miley. But she doesn't take her head off my lap. Probably because I'm holding it there.

“Everyone tries to give me advice,” she says. “They think they can relate. Because they used to be 'low self-esteem' sluts and now they're low self-esteem emotional carcasses. I'm making more money than any of them. It's funny. I could fuck up my career tomorrow and live like a queen for the rest of my life.”

“But why are you crying?” I ask.

“You know that faggot, Justin Bieber?” she says.

“Whoa,” I say. “I kind of have a crush on him. As much as I can with a celebrity like that.”

“I walked in on Justin sucking Terry's cock. They didn't even notice me. I had taken three Xanax and I was going to give Terry my ass. Do you know how special my ass is?”

“Probably,” I say. “Yes, I think so.”

“I feel like I'm going to die,” says Miley.

“Oh my god... Did you enjoy having sex with Terry Richardson?”


“What the fuck?” I can feel myself falling apart. “And Justin... Did he look happy?”

“The happiest ever,” says Miley. She's back to sobbing.

Her tears are contagious and I've caught them. “Do you know what he looks like? I mean Terry... Look at him.”

“He's sooooo talented,” she says.

“Oh my god,” I say. “He has sex with everyone he photographs, doesn't he? The cast of Jersey Shore. James Franco. I think I'm going to die.”

“No,” says Miley. “I'm going to die. You can't die. Not yet. You don't even know him.”

“I don't care about Terry Richardson! Except for the fact that I want to kill him. I never listened to pop music until I started jerking off to Justin Bieber... and then to you. You two basically look the same. I jerked off to your most recent photo set. Terry was in the mirror, obscured by the flash of his camera. It made me want to throw up.”

“Those photos are super personal. Most people don't know that.”

“It's because he has great abs, right? I can never get my abs that shredded.”

“What are you talking about?” says Miley.

“I'm talking about Terry Richardson. I'm trying to figure out why you like him.”

“You wouldn't understand.”

“I don't even understand why you're here. I thought you liked me.”

“What?” she says. “No. I saw your rent-boy ad on some message board, and I thought it would be fun to kill you. That's what I do when I'm upset. I kill boys who aren't as cute as me.”

I try to laugh, but it's hard with all the crying. “You're joking, right?”

Miley sits up and pulls a pocket knife from her bra. She opens it up and stabs me in the eye. I start screaming and bleeding all over my face. Then she slices my head open. And I can't feel anything.


  1. Danny! You weren't kidding with the whole "too bad she wasn't crying in those pictures" comment on FB. And I'll say it again...Miley doesn't look like Bieber...she looks like YOU. She is a female physical representation of you. I never noticed until you posted on FB yesterday...then I paid close attention, and it was just there...BAM. So, here's my 5 cent analysis. Not that you asked for it. Miley has decided to finally come out of her prim and proper shell. And good for her. Some people may call her trashy or slutty or stupid or ignorant; however, isn't that what normally happens when the sheep are uncomfortable with what they see happening before their dead, staring eyes? Either that, or they hop en masse onto the Save My Soul Train, which is heading straight for Jesusville. Little do they know that when they arrive at their destination, the only thing waiting for them is discontent and heartache...since Jesusville is no more then an atom bomb site in the middle of the Nevada desert. And you might as well be driving that train my friend...and laughing uncontrollably as each flock of sheep disembark. But I digress. So, in your Mileyworld, she is incommodious to the fact that she is finally free. Free to fuck who she wants. Free to finally scream to the world "I am going to take that Domme position that I always wanted to take". And lastly, free to stab you in the eye with her pocket knife, simply because now she can. She kills you because she doesn't need her male doppelganger any longer. She can now consume all that you were, and make the ultimate decision...should she fuck Justin Bieber with her pussy, or jerk off to him with her cock? Just my humble opinion....but please, for the sake of all us poor females who love to watch you, and not Miley Wylde, take that pocket knife from her, and slit her throat. You can then take her dead lifeless body, and make her swing back and forth on your cock, like she swings back and forth on that stupid wrecking ball. Fucking fantastic story...loved every sentence.

  2. This didn't go down the path I was hoping. Sigh... Now if Terry had offed Justin and Miley, that would have gotten my blood flowing. Still, as always, fun to what entertains Danny and dances in his head.

  3. Oh Danny, you are keeping me from work - in a way I like it! So, I am now answering to a fictional character, can't believe it. Second time in a far shorter period than one would expect from me that I am concerned with someone's obsession with Miley Cyrus. You know, "Miley Cyrus floats in a swimming pool in Toluca Lake" in Nick Cave's lyrics, and now she is crying and killing in Your blog. As if Terry Richardson's gaze was not enough ;) Anyways, I enjoyed your Miley, especially when she says “Fuck you,” and doesn't take her head off your lap, Probably because your are holding it there. Have a nice day!

  4. This is one of the greatest things I've ever read. And I usually only say that about margaret atwood shit.

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