Charlotte: Is it so much to ask that you not wear your dress up around your "see you next Tuesday?"
Samantha: My what?
Charlotte: (drawing characters in the air): C - U - Next...
Carrie: Tuesday? Oh my God! Was that a Schoolhouse Rock I missed?

A day without a Britney Spears fuck up is like trying to keep a Kennedy from open water. Despite being a singer who hasn't released a new album in 3 years, people still talk about her now more than ever. In the media-dominated, starfucking shithole our society's come to, that old adage rings more true now than it ever has been... no publicity is bad publicity. Just when you thought the Access Hollywood generation couldn't possibly sink twenty-somethings any lower, we've now reached a new low. Twat is the new black. Oh, how I long for the innocent age of the planned nip slip at sporting events.

As it turns out, all those Catholic schoolgirl come-ons couldn't get her any further than a K-Mart weave, an ugly C-section scar, and a swollen, stretched out clam flapping in the breeze. What a way to roll the dice: panty-free and sharing car seats with Paris Hilton. Why not just ask a homeless guy to shove his feet up your birth canal? At this point, there's not much left for Clitney to do but stagger over to San Fernando Valley and start baring that beat up beaver for the hot lights of pornucopia full time. In the meantime, the pox-riddled pussy posse of Brit-Brit, Parisite & Blohan might as well get together do some Bangkok-brothel ping-pong act for the masses at this point. Except they probably no longer have the elasticity to make it work. Nicole Richie is feeling so left out right now.

Can the legions of waifish preteen boys with delicate features watching VMA performances past in their Midwestern farmhouse on YouTube, lips pursed and glossy mouthing along to every word to I'm A Slave 4 U catch a break? Her fan base had high hopes for snapping out of her white trash haze and crawling out of the dumpster with rugrats in tow. If they only knew the downward spiral was yet to come.

Had the wind blown one degree in the other direction, Britney would still be in Bumblefuck, Louisiana, freshly divorced from Billy Joe after cranking out a village of inbred brats and flashing her vag in the parking lot of the Piggly Wiggly while getting out of her 1985 Ford Escort. Oh, how I can't contain my glee in anticipation of her next tear-soaked interview with Matt Lauer, when she smacks on Bubble Yum and her mascara's streaked to Tammy Faye-like perfection, all while wearing just a tube top with her legs prepped for an inebriated pap smear pleading for the paparazzi to leave her alone. She's a mess and will continue to be a mess. I'm just holding the confetti and balloons for when she cracks completely. You can take a girl out of the trailer park, but you can't take the barefoot yokel outta the girl.

Labels: Britney Spears, media

If brains were fries, Britney Spears couldn't fill a goddamn happy meal.

Aside from screaming half the night and leaving your wardrobe with the sweet smell of spit-up, babies are a veritable fountain of redeeming qualities. They're: a) more often than not, so cute as can be, b) cuddly, c) giggly, d) squeezably soft and other fuzzy-wuzzy adjectives not uttered at Planned Parenthood. You'll notice that being used as an airbag deployment tool has been left off that checklist. However, translate that kernel of logic into the twisted mind of Shitney and you get a prime opportunity to lose 20 pounds of baby fat after hitting the brakes and watching little spudnik fly through the window.

But maybe riding the crimson wave into day 3 just has me feeling bitchier than usual. I mean, hell sometimes I run, sometimes I drive...sometimes I'm scared of photographers using the long lens as I leave A&W All-American Food with a face full of chili cheese fries. So, let's hold off on chucking this pop tart to the wolves for at least the next 30 seconds to hear Brit Brit's line of defense:

"Today I had a horrifying, frightful encounter with the paparazzi while I was with my baby. Because of a recent incident when I was trapped in my car without my baby by a throng of paparazzi, I was terrified that this time the physically aggressive paparazzi would put both me and my baby in danger. I instinctively took measures to get my baby and me out of harm's way, but the paparazzi continued to stalk us, and took photos of us which were sold to the media. I love my child and would do anything to protect him."

She'd do anything to protect him, especially hold him on her lap while she was being chased by photographers on that oasis of safety - Pacific Coast Highway. That's really secure. I mean, really... who else was gonna hold her Schlitz malt liquor and Cheetos for her?

Talk about being destined for an E! True Hollywood Story from the womb. All Sean Preston really asks for in life is some nipple-to-mouth action, gourmet pureed peaches and working diaper genie. Instead, he's forced to bare the cross of being the love child of a chronic gigolo with the mic skills of Brian Austin Green and a washed-up douchebag who walks into public restrooms barefoot. Next on tap... trading Seanie Poo for a McRib next time Daddy maxes out the Amex card at the golden arches.

As if the baby's daddy wasn't enough, now mom decides the back seat is way too tame for her kid since it's crowded from all of K-Fed's subwoofers. She's Britney fucking Spears — and rules are for fools. What's the big deal, right? "It is what it is."

Labels: Britney Spears, media