First of all I want to clear one thing up once and for all. I mean, like, I am not a little slut. Okay? But I'm not afraid to twerk it y'all. Apparently, this vicious rumor has been making the rounds ever since I did my dance at the MTV Video Music Awards.
When I was dancing with Robin Thicke I did some outlandish things like stripping down to almost nothing, wagging my tongue at him and on him, and rubbing my bootie in his face. I don't know what else I have to do to be recognized for what I am – I'm a big slut!
Look, when I first started on "Hannah Montana" I was little. I wasn't even a slut – hell, I was only 14 – ok, maybe I was a little slut, but don't tell my dad.
I was also little, like you know, height and weight wise. I didn't even have boobies. Now I wouldn't say I have big bobbies, but I have boobies – two of them. I know you know, because I keep showing them to everybody.
My sluttiness grew in direct proportion to my tongue over the years. That thing is like a freaking serpent's now, I can catch flies and stuff with it. I once French kissed a boy in geometry class while I was in the remedial English room next door.
Back in my Hannah days I didn't act like the little pig I really was because of Mr. Disney. I had a very strict clause in my contract stating I had to be wholesome, a regular Tinker Freaking Bell.
From what I could figure Walt Disney himself is kept under ice and he can see everything that is going on. He's kind of like god, omnipotent, which I think means he was a real stud back when he was, you know, a slut.
Every year all of the stars would put on a show for him called "Walt Disney On Ice" to celebrate his birthday. He's probably really cold – I think I might get him a sweater for his next birthday. (I was thinking I could lick him but my tongue might stick to him.)
I was really hurt by all the criticism about my performance on the award show. My dad tried to cheer me up – he told me my mom was a slut, and that made me feel good. "Did people say she was a little slut, Daddy?
"No," he assured me. "Your mom was a huge slut." That made me feel better.
The critics even bashed my new album, Bangerz. No one seemed to know what the title referred to . . . jeez! Ever hear of gang bangerz? Hello? I mean, how stupid can they be?
I get my thick skin from my dad. Most of you probably never heard of him – Billy Ray Cyrus -- but he was hot once. That was like, a million years ago. But that man can write a song. When you read how profound my lyrics are you'll see where the inspiration came from.
Here is something he wrote for me when I was a little girl:
You can tell your Ma I moved to Arkansas
Or you can tell your dog to bite my leg
Or tell your brother Cliff, who's fist can tell my lips
He never really liked me anyway
But don't tell my heart, my achy breaky heart
I just don't think it'd understand
And if you tell my heart, my achy breaky heart
He might blow up and kill this man
Every time I used to hear it I'd start crying. "Please don't move to Arkansas, Pa," I'd cry out. Then my Ma would tell me Pa left the family when I was like four months-old. I also didn't have a dog, or a brother Cliff. Ma said Pa was probably writing for his other family, the one in Arkansas. The important thing is now we see each other all the time – as soon as he read I was worth about 100 million bucks, he came home.
Now I'm in trouble again because I lit up a joint onstage at the European MTV awards. I mean, what is the big deal about that? All musicians take drugs – look at all them old jazz guys. They got so stoned they couldn't remember any lyrics and so they just played music with no words. And Ray Charles took so much drugs he went blind. Jeez, I bet that happens to Bieber!
Anyhows, I'm gonna keep twerkin,' twittin' and wearing that giant hand I used on the MTV show to almost sodomize Thicke, armed with the knowledge that as screwed up as I am I'll never be able to hold a candle to Lady Gaga. I mean, that ho has some real issues. What's wrong with her?