By “Dangerous” Bob Sauer

It seems to me that the pomp, ceremony, and luster of beauty pageants has, in recent years, lost some popularity. But still, every year, women from all 50 states strut their stuff, twirl batons, tap dance, belt out show tunes, and wish for world peace in front of a panel of judges and a dressed-up, well-behaved audience.

Personally, I was never a huge fan of glamour-type competitions. Frankly, I’m more appreciative of the cerebral qualities of womanhood — brains over bust line if you will. To those who might question why I still have a framed poster of Farrah Fawcett-Majors on my living room wall, I’d be quick to point out that she had an IQ several clicks over 80.

I suspect I’m possibly in the minority of men who prefer a woman’s intellect over her physical appearance. Even the late, great Joan Rivers observed that when a man wonders what’s under a woman’s clothes, he’s not picturing a library card. Well put, Joan, but I beg to differ. Myself, I’d like nothing better than to imagine a library card in there — or anything related to the Dewey Decimal System, for that matter.

The only female competition that I’m drawn to (aside from roller derby) is the Miss Communication Pageant held every summer at Skidmore College in upstate New York. This contest is based entirely on a woman’s grammatical skills and vocabulary prowess. In this competition, words truly matter … words matter … hmm, words matter … that’s got a nice ring to it. Anyway, consider the biography of some of this year’s contestants:

Miss Shapen. She could never have been in a regular beauty contest anyway, what with her non-matching, grossly different-sized legs and pear-shaped head.

Miss Understanding. She has no idea why she’s entered this contest. She thought she was in line for free cheese.

Miss Pronunciation. She always puts the emphasis on the last syllable of every word. (She puts the “sin” in “Wisconsin” — where it belongs.)

Miss Conception. She thinks she can will herself into not ovulating this month.

Miss Calculation. She’s currently banned from adjusting the setting on laser eye surgery equipment.

Miss Print. Most recent typo was the incorrect spacing of characters in the phrase, “The pen is mightier than the sword.”

Miss Fortune. She always uses her Social Security number when playing the lottery, even though it’s way too many numbers.

Miss Chief. Her favorite prank is to put a live mouse in her roommate’s underwear drawer.

Miss Appropriation. She abruptly lost her job as a corporate accountant but was immediately snapped up by the U.S. Military’s supply chain division.

Miss Erable. She’s a suffering, tragically pathetic, mean, vile, contemptible old hag, but she has her health.

Miss Place. She’s realized that it’s OK that she can’t find her car fob because her Prius is missing, too.

Miss Cellaneous. She fits in perfectly with this bunch.

Miss Treat. She drives by the Dairy Queen very slowly without pulling in just to torture her nieces and nephews.

Miss T. She always feels damp to the touch but doesn’t pity the fools running this contest.

Miss Take. She found out the hard way that two wrongs don’t make a right, but three rights do make a left.

Miss Representation. Her new weight-loss supplement won’t really help bladder control issues.

Miss Interpretation. She thought my uncontrollable spastic facial tic was enthusiastic flirting.

Coming in next month’s Spirit: The Adjunct Professor of English Literature at Skidmore College explains why he’s pleasantly disgusted with all my columns — especially this one.