Well played, Billy Ray. Well played indeed!
I didn’t know you had it in you! I look at your stupid haircut and listen to your moronic redneck drawl, and I think to myself, “Jesus Christ, how does this rube even manage to walk upright, much less make millions and millions of dollars.” But I see now how wrong I was. I give credit where credit is due, and Billy Ray, you have earned a shit-ton of credit. And it looks like you’re about to cash that credit in on an endless supply of 18-year-old poontang.
When I heard you were getting divorced, it didn’t move me in the slightest. First off, I don’t give a damn about you or your family. Second, a celebrity getting divorced is the equivalent of a seagull taking a shit, which is to say it happens every five minutes. Been there, done that. But as I was repeatedly subjected to the story during the 24-hour news cycle, I began to realize the genius of your decision.
First of all, your daughter Miley turns 18 next month. I don’t have to tell you what that means. The gravy-train is over. I know from experience. Now that your meal ticket is officially an adult, I don’t imagine she’ll need daddy around to cash her pay checks. Had you gotten a divorce when she was 12, or 16, you might have run the risk of losing out on all that “Hannah Montana” money. But you held out until the end, and now you’re having the court "equitably divide the marital estate." I bet you are, my friend. Smooth.
Second, you’re asking for joint custody. Another no brainer, but since I thought you had no brains, I am impressed. What if lightening strikes twice? If one of your talentless hill-babies can get their own show, why not a second? Even if they can’t sing a f*cking note, the name alone will get them in the door. So what if they crash and burn (the little one, in particular)? You’ll get the money upfront. Even if they only make a fraction of what Miley made, you’ll do alright. After all, 5% of a gazillion is…well, it’s a lot of friggen money.
But it’s the third point in your plan that impresses me the most. I know you rednecks like ‘em young, so it must have been very difficult for you to wait for the age of consent laws to expire. And to be clear, I’m not making an incest joke (although I really want to). Far from it. For four long years, your daughter has been watched by millions of young girls on the Disney Channel. And you, Billy-boy, were playing her loving, steadfast father the whole time. That means that for the past four years, millions of young, impressionable girls who are the same age as your daughter have been looking up to you as a strong, male role-model. For half of these chicks, you’re the closest thing they’ve had to a dad. You’ve been in their home, week after week, since 2006, and now they’re about to start turning 18! My god, you’ll be able to walk into any strip club in the Western world and have your pick of the litter. Find any girl born in 1992 who has “daddy issues,” and you’ll have her spreading faster than Parkay! And each year, the pool will grow as girls born in ’93, ’94, and so on come of age. You’d be a fool not to leave your wife, and you are clearly not a fool.
You come across as a big, lumbering ox who yodels uninspired country crap, but deep down is the heart of a champion. You bought, when other men would have sold. You knew that slow and steady wins the race. Where as weaker men would have cut and run with some hussy after the first few million, you built your empire, and waited for your harem to mature as one waits for a fine wine. You sir, are a god among men. I salute you. Call me sometime. I’m sick of hanging out with Jon Gosselin.