CHAPTER ONE: A BRIEF HISTORY OF PAGEANTS.
Aside from taxes and Jerry Springer on weekdays, beauty pageants are the most ancient institution in the Universe. When the first cluster of ambitious subatomic particles happened across an electromagnetic charge and a cell was zapped into existence, its first thought was that a couple hundred blank, hopelessly convoluted financial forms would, in conjunction with a ballpoint pen, really help pass the time. Its second thought was that watching slack jawed yokels pummel the remaining teeth out of each other's mouths might be exquisitely amusing. Thirdly, it realized that its healthy amount of self-esteem must be remedied as soon as possible, and proceeded to organize the first pageant (thought it could not have been called a success since said cell was the only functioning organism in existence at the time).
Beauty pageants, unlike the Amish and the taste of cod liver oil, have the unique ability to maintain their fundamental policies and beliefs while adapting to the times. With each new chapter of society there arises an innovative pageant to cheapen it; for example, in the wake of Elbirret's Dreadfully Unfortunate Porcine Uprising, when a horde of angry boars overran the Emporer's palace and imposed martial law, a pageant was founded for no particular reason, except perhaps to pacify the humanoid population by giving them something annual to look forward to. Mind you, Elbirret was a planet comprised mostly of dense forests of poison ivy and copy after miserable copy of Paula Nancy Millstone Jennings' masterwork "Adventures In the Company of a Relatively Fluffy Mammal." (These books were a displaced Earth export- when the unsold remnants of the truly loathsome series of pages were shot into space, they ended up on Elbirret. To this day, the books are thought to be an angry deity's answer to someone finding a cure for welts caused by the native vegetation. The remedy has since been banned, except on Earth, ironically, where the salve is whimsically titled "cortisone." It should be noted that Earth has since been obliterated.) As a result of its foliage, Elbirret's inhabitants were doomed to be warlike, and were, due to their planet-wide skin condition and lack of tolerable reading material, very hard to distract.
The Lil' Miss Rash-Free competition was enacted soon after the revolution, claiming to promote the importance of thorough female grooming and snout care. Suspiciously, one of the categories in which contestants were judged was Trotter Origami. The Paper Maiche portion of the pageant, too, seemed to help reduce the incidence of Ms. Jennings' book. This is only one example, however, of a beauty pageant that united two squabbling species.
Note: Elbirret, as a result of nuclear war between two squabbling species, no longer exists.
The subject of male-oriented pageants, up until ten million years ago when God smiled benignly down at Adam and saw that he was good(-looking), was somewhat taboo. A self-respecting male, it turns out, cannot publicly cavort in anything smaller than a tasteful tank top and athletic shorts while retaining his heterosexuality in any part of the Galaxy. So severe was the stigma of the speedo that one day a small, valiant group of sexually adventuresome pilgrimesses stormed the headquarters of the Imperial Galactic Government and demanded that thongs and many other variations on skin-tight attire be formally declared acceptable for their husbands and objects of admiration to prance about in.
Needless to say, they were shot on sight.
Despite its tragic end, the incident eventually had its desired effect, and a men's pageant was instated. A drawback in acquiring a diverse audience, though, was evident even in the competition's title: Mr. Vogon Stud. Hideous creatures, it seems, are exceptionally secure in their sexual orientations. When the gestation of young takes place in the armpit (favoring the left), one might not feel compelled to engage in sexual activity as recreational; therefore, preference barely even comes into play when the winner of your species' staring contest is the one that can look his rival for the longest period without wincing. Traditionally, Vogons mate only out of duty, since their anatomy is not specialized for pleasure of any kind. Vogon men, for example, have spiked penises; their semen is a highly corrosive substance much like acid, but somewhat smellier, and women (touché) have nothing more than a second, sharp-toothed, particularly ravenous mouth leading to a uterus. Also, sex requires that two preferably naked beings come in close proximity to each other, and the only thing uglier than a Vogon in full battle armor is a Vogon in his or her birthday suit. Why, then, considering their innate hideousness, would the Vogons agree to hold the first male pageant? Quite simply, they were paid off by the government, who wished to quell the intergalactic uprising of dry-mouthed, horny females tired of watching their husbands, fathers, brothers, and/or lesbian cousins salivating periodically over pageant queens. Drool-envy was soon after inducted into the Encyclopedia Galactica as a valid mental disorder.
The Mr. Vogon Stud pageant (the first and only winner of which was, not surprisingly, the Prostetnic at the time: a truly grotesque specimen of organic life called Grumb, and very fittingly so) failed to reach its target audience. Government experts were baffled, and it should be confirmed herewith that government experts are all overpaid dunces. This first endeavor in male pageants passed into obscurity and was beaten to death with a sawed-off pool cue upon arrival.
A few more centuries and endless Senso-Telly marathons of Queer, Dammit, for the Straight Planet brought about the grudging popularity of male-oriented pageants. Faster than you could be coerced to grit out the word "fabulous," scores of well-groomed, overtly pleasant males were flocking to these competitions in order for their beauty to be recognized. Problem was, in such a large, diverse Universe as ours, it was near impossible for judges of a certain species to consider contestants of different species attractive in any way. While the equine, water-dwelling inhabitants of the planet Pongidae regard translucent yellow skin and a certain rare, jiggling consistency as the height of loveliness, any humanoid in their right mind would not. "This," corroborated the government experts, "is something of a problem. Funny it didn't present itself during any of the female pageants."
Note: Massive bosoms are the universal good.
"Now what," the government experts pondered impotently, "is so mind-bogglingly useful that it could resolve our dilemma without the use of technology, tax dollars, or any effort on our part?"
"The Babel Fish, you cretin!" intervened their wives, "Now come to dinner!"
Aquatic critter, ubiquitous translator, delicious with tartar sauce; whatever title you assign it, the Babel fish is a wonder of evolution. Something so shamelessly functional, unhampered by drawbacks or side-effects (unless the concept of having a banana-hued leech thrashing about in your cerebrum is unappealing to you), surely must prove that divine design comes into play at one point in the evolutionary process. But such an argument would matter, and this story is strictly asinine. To delve back into the more inane sub-plot: after minimal research but lots of dissection and pensive fondling of internal organs, government experts realized that, if stretched to transparency, the buoyancy bladder of the Babel fish allows whoever is looking through it to perceive alien beauty as equivalent to their native perception of beauty. Example; while peering through Babel Bladder Lenses, an equine, water-dwelling inhabitant of the planet Pongidae might see Brad Pitt, the epitome of beauty in male humans, as a jiggling yellow man-horse, the epitome of Pongidaeien beauty. While looking at, say, Donald Trump through the BBLs, it might see a relatively firm creature who is pastel at best.
The government experts responsible for the discovery (i.e.: blessed coincidence) embarked on a publicity tour, though the details of the experiment became increasingly muddled from so many contributors trying to downplay how the solution had beckoned like a transsexual streetwalker. Despite the connotations when handsomely paid bystanders yelled "Look! A diversion!", allowing the government experts in question to bolt from press conferences, the BBLs were well-accepted and put to good use when the First Annual Mr. Existence pageant took place at the height of sweeps week later that year.
The Mr. Existence Spectacle of Non-Effeminate Beauty, since it originated on a fateful Thursday night of excellent senso-television, has dwarfed all other competitions in its genre. In case you were wondering, its creator, Rabbug Teks (as well as being the only gay CEO of the widely complained-about Sirius Corporation) was long-winded and thesaurus-happy. A month or so before the pageant itself, advertisements began to surface in all major magazines and (conveniently) the package lining of all Sirius Corporation products. Free BBLs were included with every promotional ploy imaginable: even the mini-laser toy traditionally included in boxes of "Uncle Sirius' Own Saccharin-Imbued ADHD Fizzles" was replaced by a pair of glasses, causing countless 5-9 year olds to sob until they were distracted by something shiny.
Mr. Existence's premiere was a grand one, boasting contestants from 200 planets and a panel of of judges (hailing from the sub-par reality programs of countless worlds) stretching as far as the eye could see. The ring-shaped catwalk, in order to pass by every single judge, had a circumference of thirty-five miles. The auditorium capacity was 3.7 million. By the nights climax, attendees were undecided on whether the speck from Betelguese or the speck from Namregia II deserved the sparkly dot and pearlescent sliver that they assumed were the crown and sash. The T.V. viewers received a fuller experience, and, in the end, actually got a good look at the winner: Cyanocitta Stellari (who, purely out of coincidence, shares a scientific name with the Western Blue Jay) of Namregia II. Without the aid of BBLs, Stellari was more likely to merit a horrified double-take than a catcall. His jewel-purple, compound eyes were two freakish diatoms sunk deep in a bald, round, paper-white skull. He had no ears, but whatever oddball deity created him didn't skimp on his nose, which protruded, dangerously triangular, at least 3 inches off of his face. From the front, he resembled a malevolent washing machine dial. In humanoid terms of beauty, however, he was the equivalent to an achingly handsome redhead with honey-colored eyes and a well-placed mole just astride his upper lip. Soon after he was crowned, female fans awarded him the admiring title "Red Delicious," much to the bemusement of his people, who, long before his reign began, had called him "Deep Purple." The equine, water-dwelling inhabitants of the planet Pongidae, where he was known as "The Yellow Jello," were similarly baffled. Regardless of the discrepancy in nicknames, sapiens, quadrupeds, and cephalic fungi across the Universe agreed that Stellari was fully deserving of his title.
The Betelgeusian runner-up joined Mr. Vogon Stud in anonymity, where they played a game of poker. Who won? That, my friends, is another story.