Unholy fuck. It appears that I can’t walk around a grocery store or a book store, or even open up a web browser, these days without seeing a picture of your weird face. Since I know how annoyed I am at the subject, I can only imagine how you must feel. So I decided to write you this letter in hopes to give you some advice on how to handle your too-much-media-coverage situation.
But let me preface the advice-giving for a second by letting you know how I feel about you. I pretty much hate you. I never thought you were talented or good looking. I was a senior in high school when you started blowing up the charts with your shitty bubblegum pop music and all the degenerate guys who worked at the theater I worked at loved you. They even hung posters of you in the manager’s office. I tried to keep out of trouble so I’d never have to go in there and see it. So thank you for that.
Why do all your songs sound the same? Why do you sing about the same things? Who cares if you’re Britney, bitch… you need to sing some new songs. Oh, I have an idea… how about you try and write a fucking song for once? I’d love to hear that song. I can only imagine that it’d be your finest hour…
Sorry for all the ellipses, I can’t stop laughing at the thought you working a pen and a pad. What? You don’t know what ‘ellipses’ are? Simply put, they are three dots, or periods, next to each other without spaces (like this: ‘…’), which usually represent a pause in thought. But I digress. How about I go onward to the advice I was offering?
1. So there is this article of clothing that has been invented since, well, a long time ago I guess. It’s called “underwear” and people wear it to protect their genitalia from the outside elements, wandering eyes, and even the lens of the paparazzi. Being a victim of accidentally stumbling across your vagina twice now, I felt the urge to plead with you: go to Wal-Mart (or Target or Victoria’s Secret or Sears or fucking JC Penny) and buy yourself a couple of pairs. They come in multi-packs, so you should be good to go with about $20.00. They even come in a multitude of shapes, like thong or bikini, for all your styling needs. We’re all grateful that you at least keep your junk maintained but man, is all that extra flapage necessary? You need to keep that thing out of view from children. If I saw what you’re packing when I was a wee kid, I wouldn’t have grown up to appreciate the vagina like I do now. I would have been terrified of it instead.
Underwear for Britney (9/2007)
2. Be careful when you drive. In case your mother never taught you, hit-and-runs are not cool. They hurt people in fact. Plus, you get in a lot of trouble when you get caught. Who wouldn’t want a piece of your bankroll? I tell you what… next time you feel the urge to hit someone and flee, hit ME. I could really use the coin.
3. This bit of advice came to me by way of Paul Walker. He once said, “All these people who complain and bitch about it [paparazzi]… move. Get the fuck out! You don’t like the press, why the hell are you shopping on Rodeo Drive? Come on, it’s easy to disappear if you want to.” If you only followed his advice, you probably wouldn’t have the custody problems you have currently. Move out of California. Then you can give whomever a hummer on whatever balcony you want, without worrying if some camera is going to tape it. You may even be able to skip advice #1 if you lived in some place like Nebraska, because no one would give a shit you were there.
I think I could give you more advice (like maybe putting your kid in a child’s seat from time to time or just stop making albums already) but I think these three points are a great start for you. I wish you nothing but the best Britney, I really do. I can’t wait for the day when I am waiting in line at Publix, with a stack of bananas, and I won’t see your face or your money-maker on some magazine.
Take care of yourself kid.
PS. Loved your performance at this year’s VMAs. It was like you were channeling Elizabeth Berkley’s character from Showgirls or something. I haven’t laughed that hard since Tony Danza flipped a go-cart on his giant head. Good job.