Judge to Miss North Carolina Pageant Contestants: "Girls, You're Both Pretty"

dispute over the rightful inheritor of the Miss North Carolina crown was settled Thursday when U.S. District Judge James Fox issued the ruling that both competitors were pretty.

Rebekah Revels had won the Miss North Carolina pageant, only to be forced to resign when a letter from her ex-boyfriend claimed he had topless pictures of her. Misty Clymer was chosen as Miss North Carolina afterwards, though Revels sued the pageant for the right to wear the crown. The winner of the lawsuit would go on to represent North Carolina in the Miss American pageant Sept. 21st.

The judge refused to pick one contestant over the other, leaving that to the Miss North Carolina pageant committee. Instead, the judge said in his ruling: "I see what this is really all about, Misty… Rebekah. Girls, you're both pretty. There's no need for all this fighting and competition."

The allegation of a forced resignation was the basis for Revels' case as she claimed the judges had rightfully chosen her to represent North Carolina. Pageant officials felt the nude photos taken by the ex-boyfriend tarnished the crown of the pageant and put dozens of future scholarships and sponsors for the Miss America and Miss North Carolina pageants in jeopardy. These photos, so crucial to the case, could not be obtained despite countless requests to both parties, but nude photos of Alyssa Milano were available on the Internet, as well as a compromising picture of Mandy Moore and two black men, but those pictures could possibly have been Photoshopped.

The case was settled amicably by the judge's declaration of equal prettiness. Miss North Carolina pageant representatives said Misty Clymer would go on to represent North Carolina in the national pageant. But the judge's ruling was a tremendous boost to Clymer's confidence.

"Like all girls, Misty needs a compliment every now and then to keep her going," said pageant representative Vill Gording. "And with all this stress of the case and the high pressure of being in a court setting, you can imagine she was a little down. The judge reminded her she was pretty—she knew it, but still, you like to hear it—and it made her day."

The declaration was also well-received by plaintiff Rebekah Revels and counsel. "Obviously, Ms. Revels is disappointed by the pageant's decision to uphold her resignation," said Revels attorney Wax Musstash. "But my client was more than satisfactorily compensated for her loss by the reassurance she is pretty. That's all she really wanted anyway—the judge was wise to acknowledge that."

"I'm glad that the court system is finally able to get past the frivolous lawsuits to the important stuff," said some smart-ass on the court steps as this reporter attempted to get better quotes from the lawyers involved.

The potential for future disappointments in both contestants' futures being high, the judge issued also his telephone number to both plaintiff and defendant, urging that they should call him sometime soon in the future for private rulings. That may or may not have been true, but this reporter certainly would have been disappointed to find the judge missed out on such an opportunity.

Again, if any informant has laid hands on the photos in question, please contact Ramon Nootles at the commune and we'll talk finder's fee.

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OH MY GOD SNOW

You know what really pisses me off? People who can't whistle but still do. Talk about begging to be beaten about the head and neck areas. Whistling isn't even that enjoyable when it's good. Even if you're stuck in an elevator with the Stradivarius of whistlers, the Grand Dragon or whatever they call the dude who wins the World Whistling Championships down in Arkansas or wherever they have that crap, next door to the freaks who can play banjo like some inbred Jimi Hendrix, even if it's THAT dude and he can whistle like God himself farting out a melody, he's still probably gonna be whistling some song you don't like. In fact, that's a pretty safe bet since it's rare that somebody whistles any song you actually want to hear, anything hardass like "Ironman," instead it's usually the Andy Griffith theme or "Butterfly Kisses" or some gay bullshit like that.

According to commune answerman and office Sorry champion Griswald Dreck, whistling was invented by the Nazis in WWII as a way of drawing Allied snipers out of their hiding places. The German soldiers who were pinned down would whistle "Oye Como Va" and other annoying German songs off-key for days on end until the sniper finally went batshit and came charging out, yelling like "Alright fuckwad! Who wants to get bitchslapped all the way back to Hamburg?" If the Nazis spoke English at all, a hilarious fistfight would ensue since the Germans only knew Nazi karate, and that just involved stepping really high and heil-Hitlering to block everything until you either got your ass kicked or the other guy fell down laughing. If the German soldiers didn't speak any English, then they'd just shoot the guy.

Disgruntled American vets who didn't get the promised pot to piss in and cherry Mustang in every garage upon returning home from the war brought whistling back with them as a subtle revenge, and before long it spread like an embarrassing nickname all across the country. They even changed the name of the thing from a "Nazi face blow" to the less disgusting term "whistling" to make it more marketable, and soon happy assholes everywhere were whistling away, without even knowing they were giving Adolph Hitler a hard-on in his grave.

Some shit happened in the intervening years, bottom line is eventually whistling spread to my neighbor Dale, which is the worst thing that could have happened. This goddamned guy whistles day and night, and when it's hot I can't even close my windows or spray him with a fire extinguisher and blame it on the weather. Remember that Stradivarius whistler I was talking about earlier? Dale's what it would be like if that guy got kicked in the head by a moose and still thought he could whistle great but actually sucked a giant dick.

The other day I was sitting at home, trying to explain to Osaka why it would be great if she bought a rickshaw to pull me around in (solving both my transportation and never-been-pulled-around-in-a-rickshaw problems in one brilliant move) when my train of thought was totally cocked in the ass by that tone-deaf Sinatra in his back yard, whistling the theme to Simon & Simon while he turtle-waxed his patio chairs. I think it was the Simon & Simon theme, but to be honest he tends to medley shit together and none of it is right anyway so I can never be sure what specifically I'm pissed about. Could've been "Save the Best for Last," but I guess I still give the dick more credit than that.

So my concentration is shot, and one of the all-time great convincing arguments is lost to the sands of time. Talk about an extra-large crock. Enough is enough, and it's time to go on the offensive. It was one thing that Dale insists on calling me "O.B." even though that's just a tampon joke waiting to happen. Now he was messing with my bidness, as the badasses in the movies like to say when they're black badasses.

I'm thinking of having my bathroom wall replaced with Plexiglas so every time Dale looks out his window he gets an eyeful of Omar Bricks' bathroom business. I'm not sure if watching your neighbor take his morning shit is on par with having to put up with some moron whistling ABBA all the time, but hanging a B.A. out the bathroom window every now and again clearly isn't getting the message across. And nothing sounds better in a memorial service than a story about the time you scared a neighbor into an early grave by pressing ham on your Plexiglas bathroom wall one morning in July.

If that doesn't work, I'm sure I can pay some neighborhood kids to shoot some of those insanely loud whistling fireworks in the dude's bedroom window while he's sleeping. That's the kind of experience that can change a man. Not that you heard that from me, when it happens remember I was speaking hypothetically. Bricks out.

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Visit a gun show or tune in to the Flag Waiving Channel any hour of the day or night and you'd be led to believe that America is the truest of all democracies, guided gently by elected leaders who do all of the hard thinking and caring for us. Sleep tight in that delusion, my friends. For every American not victim to this mass hysteria can see the boot-cut truth: This is Perry Ellis' America.

We just live in it.

I ask you: What better guise than a fey, girlish fashion queenpin from which to pull the puppet strings of World Domination? And when I say that, I don't mean the fun kind of leather and latex domination you read about in Harper's. I refer to something much more cruel and non-sexual; think Hulk Hogan subjecting Andre the Giant to a Polynesian Nipple-Ripper at Wrestlemania IV. That kind of domination.

Rile not, my friends, for the battle has already been lost. Ellis ripped the nipples of America long ago, and it's his show now. The story of how it happened is not so hard to follow: Small town boy makes good… or so they'd like you to believe. It's easier for all involved if you buy into the fiction of every fashion magnate coming from some stagnant repressed backwater, rather than genetically engineered ubereggs surgically grafted onto Kathleen Turner's uterus. But for the sake of brevity let's say Ellis grew up in some tobacco-spit nightmare of a small town, then parlayed a Home Ec revelation into a fashion empire. As they say, power corrupts and fashion power corrupts fashionably, and so from his new position Ellis took hold of the seat of American governance. Literally. He boldly advertised his coup by stitching "Perry Ellis' America" onto asses all across the land, like the all-too-real modern branding of human cattle.

Some would issue a call to arms, a battle cry to rise up and tear down the Ellis regime. But even if Ellis' storm troopers would not easily crush us all like a midget at the Ultimate Fighting Championship, which they would, I would still urge caution. After all, is life so bad under the Ellis regime? Many of us are prosperous, and our asses look great in these pants. True, a revolution is always fun in the beginning, but would it seem like such a good idea when we're all moping around in dumpy-assed Dungarees? I doubt it very seriously.

The time has come for Americans to realize what the Illuminati discovered years ago: That Ellis rule is good for America. And before you flood my offices with email and symbol-rich deliveries of seafood, know that I'm talking about the secret World Government here, not the progressive rock group from the 1970's who had their one hit, "New Age of Innocence" ripped off by the theme from TV's Silver Spoons.

True, it may seem at first Un-American to accept the Perry Ellis dictatorship in our supposedly democratic society. But ask yourselves this: Ten years ago, were you any better off under the rule of Mariah Carey? I thought not, and your stunned silence speaks volumes. The foreign policy gaffes, not to mention her "chart-topping hits," were enough to make you pray for the cold, iron fist of a real dictator. Well dreamers, you got your wish. Enjoy the pants.

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