Oh, Britney. If you weren't such a skank you might have a chance with me now that you're single. But, you are. A stupid skank, I mean. I've seen you on TV. Your hair looks like it was cut and died with a cigarette lighter and a tub of Wesson. Your formerly pretty face is lined heavier than mine, and I'm a good five years older than you. You look like David Carradine when he first wakes up in the morning.
You have blown it.
You were the princess of pop. Sure, Christina challenged, but she was a little too skinny and raunchy. She had all the poise of a yardstick with two balloons and a garter belt taped to it. You had her beat with your all-around looks and innocence.
Beyoncé made a run at your popularity. But (shhh!) she's black and the suburb moms didn't want their retainer-teethed and training-bra daughters listening to "one of those people." She lost on the "Choosy moms choose white girls" vote alone. You had her beat if you could've held out from being a complete tub of garbage.
But you couldn't. Instead of being a pretty superstar and dating successful young actors and models you tried to play the "I'm a virgin" bit and married that cornrow-and-Kool-cigarette wigger.
Now that you have to reinvent yourself, what sexual cliché will you choose? You were the naughty schoolgirl and a stewardess. What's next? Babysitter? Cheerleader? The years of dividing your time between drugs, McDonald's french fries, and pregnancy have left you unqualified for both.
Maybe I'm being too harsh. No. Screw that. I'm not. You're an idiot.
I hate that I know this much about you. Sure, I ogled your pre--skank-era boobs, but I never sought out stories about you. I know more about you than I'd like. You've publicized yourself into ubiquity. Your embarrassing life is leaked to the TV, magazines, and radio. I couldn't escape you even though I tried.
You're like Disneyland: The general populace thought you were cute and wholesome until you distributed yourself to everything, every media, everywhere. Now we all realize you are nothing but an artless, soulless corporation and the cracks in your pancake makeup match the sidewalk of the Magic Kingdom.
Remember, you've chosen this life of public adulation and ridicule.
Your best option is to find some talent within yourself and encourage it. But you won't. Based on your past, I'm guessing you'll choose to be a gap-toothed, Southern, single mother with a chemical dependency.
What's next for you? The obvious route: stripping. Get it over with and then please fade to obscurity.
WHAT I WILL AND WON'T WATCH THIS WEEK
Thursday November 16
Scooby-Doo and the Monster of Mexico
TOON 10:00 a.m. If this is about Tina the one-legged Tijuana prostitute, it's not funny. Sure, she's on the "large" side of the scale, but to call her a monster is unfair. When she strips off that mustache she's almost pretty, and, besides, she's a nice lady. I don't like this show. Scooby, you've been rude to my friend.
NBC 9:30 p.m. One of those goofball Baldwins was picked up for vehicle theft and cocaine charges last weekend. I think he should find Pastor Ted and Diana Ross and go on a twisted romp of excess from L.A to D.C., like Bonnie and Clyde only there's three of them and they're quasi celebrities. When they step from the wreckage and dust the powder off their jackets and fix their wigs they should march into the Capitol building and demand Mark Foley's cell-phone number.
Friday November 17
The Price Is Right
CBS 10:00 a.m. Morley Safer and Sean Connery better not buy any green bananas. Following the rule of threes we've got: 1) Ed Bradley, 2) Jack Palance,
3) ? And if Bob Barker feels a little tickle in his throat, he better rush his thin ass to the doctor toot-sweet.
Saturday November 18
WB 11:30 a.m. I'm allergic to dog snot. As such, this show qualifies as an irritant.
MyTV 13 10:00 p.m. I've cured polio. If, while sleeping, you happen to "compromise the integrity" of the air beneath your covers you've got to let it out. Don't keep that rotten air down there; kick an opening and rush some fresh oxygen in or you'll wake up with withered, black, little nubs where your legs used to be. Please. Stop Bed Fart Polio before it begins. Thank you.
Sunday November 19
MTV 8:30 p.m. I propose my own version of Laguna Beach, only it'll be set in my home of Tuolumne County. Instead of debutantes' and football stars' dramatic lives unfolding around lattes and lobster dinners, the tooth-light cast will squabble over a baggy of San Jose biker crank and the last nacho in the tub. No mansions, SUVs, or posh designer-clothing stores; the whole thing will be set in a welfare shack in the woods, a Trans-Am with one headlight, and Wal-Mart. Now that's reality TV.
Monday November 20
MTV 8:30 p.m. So what? Madonna bought a kid. If I had her money I'd buy a kid, too. Man, I hate doing the dishes. Hell, if I had Madonna's money I'd buy Caroline Kepcher off of Trump; I'd buy Martha from her former cell mate for a roll of toilet paper and a candy bar; and I'd get that ugly kid from Family Ties, you know, that blonde chick with the big butt. I'd make 'em perform in a private circus on my lawn. I'd snap 'em with a whip. Hyeaw, you little bastards! CRACK! Get back on that unicycle.
Tuesday November 21
MTV 9:00 p.m. An open letter to the obese woman in a halter top with a hickey on her neck who was beating her kids in Hollywood Video: Thank you! For being such an aberration to human decency, my girlfriend and I were treated to quite a show after our dinner on Saturday night. It may have made our subsequent viewing of The Notorious Betty Page seem tame by comparison, but I'll trade the anticlimax of a mediocre movie for your terrific spectacle any day!