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Laugh it up: I was in a beauty pageant in high school.

Revise: It was a beauty/brain pageant called Miss All-Something-Or-Other-American Student that boasted teens with a GPA of 3.6 or higher.

I don’t know how it happened or why it happened, or how they even got me to that fancy hotel, but I begrudgingly bought some sparkly purple gown, some stupid shoes that weren’t Docs or Chucks and headed to Orlando for a weekend shin-dig packed with broads twirling batons, belting operatic superhuman noises and overacting monologues.

I don’t even remember what my talent was. I’ve repressed this memory, it appears (and/or I’m aging the hell out of myself). I think I read a poem I wrote. (What a loser she is.) I do remember when asked who my idol was, the only person I could think of was Elvis, so I said, “Elvis?”

Much of the weekend, I hid behind a dumpster and chain smoked in my shiny getup.

Have you seen those movies, “Drop Dead Gorgeous” (if not, get your ass to Blockbuster and rent it on VHS right now) or “Miss Congeniality”? This pageant was spot-on. Minus the contestants barfing bad shellfish over balconies, as in “Drop Dead Gorgeous” (my favorite Allison Janney role yet).

It was girls running down hallways in their jammies (not like pillow fights and lingerie, fools), sharing pizza and soda, giggling like my 1 year old when daddy farts. I think we were making posters or something. But it was totally like a grade-school slumber party with me wondering when the hell someone was going to bust out the Boone’s Farm or Zima.

Nobody did. At least I had my cancer sticks, Ponygirls. (Remember “The Outsiders”? See: Aging the hell out of myself.)

The whole weekend I knew I wasn’t going to be in the Top 10, not even the Top 50. But what happened next — while I was chewing on my fingernails watching the girls get crowned and daydreaming about probably Elvis — they called my name. I looked around confused and the broad next to me nudged me and told me to go get my award.

I totally landed Miss Congeniality.

I ran up to the stage and spiked the medal like a football and yelled, “In your face, bitches!”

No I didn’t. But I really did win Miss Congeniality. Too damn funny, I still laugh with a question mark. I’ll have to find that cheap piece of aluminum and start pimping it, Mr. T-style.

The weekend turned out fun and I did meet a couple homies I kept in touch with for a whole three months. And I also have a funny gown to wear on Halloween. It wasn’t a total bust.

But hear this, ye pageant inviters: Next time you invite me, can it be one with real competitions? Like a shot-for-shot whiskey race, a Mad Libs competition or keg stands? Maybe a drunk dancing competition? My thirsty liver and I will totally be there with a raging pelvic thrust.

Read more Fantz: Stalk her:

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