Frost, cummings, Dickinson...Spears

I'm a day late and a dollar short with some of this Britney shit, but who cares when rumors are swirling that she has filed divorce papers against Federline. It's official: I no longer believe in love.

Seriously, I kind of hope this isn't true because I don't think I can handle a "Britney Is Free!" comeback, punctuated with "empowering" pop hits about how she's strong and she don't need no man and—look, I'm still sexy, too!—proves it by humping a car/motorcycle/bed/albino snake/toilet bowl/another skeevy backup dancer. Unfortunately, she seems to have already started repeating "Be strong, Britney" over and over to her reflection in the bathroom mirror, because a couple of weeks ago a mysterious poem cryptically entitled "Remembrance of Who I Am" appeared in the "Love B: Stream of Consciousness" segment on her official site. I know, the thought of Britney's sixth-grade "stream of consciousness" blatherings makes me want to jam a railroad spike through my head, too, and believe me, she doesn't disappoint—here is the whole garbled, angsty mess for you to mock:

No more chains
That you gave me. [sic]

Enough of pain
Now I'm craving
Something sweet, so delight [sic]
How do you stand sleeping at night?

Silly patterns that we follow
You pull me in
I'm being swallowed.
By the ones you think you love
They pull you down
You can't see up above.

Manipulation is the key
They screw it in
Because you're naive.

You come to me now
Why do you bother?
Remember the Bible
The sins of the Father.
What you do
You pass down.
No wonder why [sic]
I lost my crown.

You don't see me now
You ask yourself why
My crown is back
And it's way too high
For you to be in my presence
Especially my son
You should bow down
I've only just begun.

The guilt you fed me
Made me weak.
The voodoo you did
I couldn't speak.

You're awakening
The phone is ringing.
Resurrection of my soul
The fear I'm bringing

What will you say
And what will you do?
She's not the same person that you're used to.

You trick me one [sic], twice, now it's three.
Look who's smiling now
Damn, it's good to be me!

[Note: the poem is followed by the proclamation "This is for everyone who thinks they know me..." and a picture of Brit and some other used-up-looking skanks flipping off the camera.]

Excuse me for a moment while I gather up the splattered pieces of my completely blown mind. I'd say it's pretty safe to assume that this is a limp girly slap at K-Fed for clipping her little wings with his slick skillz of trickery. Sorry, Britty, you may get a C- for effort (it's lame, but you earn points for managing to crank something out of your miniature brain), but you get a big, fat F for execution. You are the one who was manipulated and the victim of some sort of voodoo magic, but he is the one who is naive? That doesn't make any sense. But maybe I'm confused because you change tenses sometimes two or three times in the same line. Certainly, YOU aren't the one who was naive. I seem to remember you smugly flaunting your man-stealer relationship with Vanilla Lice to the world with a shitty TV show then funding his stone-cold rhyming, constant media whoring, and non-stop reproduction. If I'm this confused, imagine how your poor, misguided little fans feel!

And your crown is back? When did this happen? In the last pics I saw of you, you were cavorting around with curlers in your hair and the baby slumped (and possibly stoned) in the backseat of your death trap convertible. Oh, and then this video made the rounds showing you clomping around in NYC in heels and long pants with an unidentified drink in one hand and Sean Preston in the other and, big surprise, you almost drop the little guy and then mumble that you wish you had a gun. For what? To shoot the sidewalk for making you almost drop your baby again? At least you didn't drop your drink! Nope, sorry, no crown in sight. By the way—nice bra, Brandine.

So Brit is trying to tell us all something with her creative mastery of adjectives and verbs, but who knows what this is about? You, me, she, we...she sounds like a raving lunatic. What does it all mean? I don't fucking know and I don't fucking care. All I know is that these people must be stopped.

Weirdly enough, I'm suddenly inspired to write a poem of my own.

There once was a girl from Kentwood
Who yammered about being misunderstood
She's pouting and rambling
While her husband's off gambling
And both left the baby on the car hood

Hey, here's another one:

Roses are red, daisies are yellow
Spark up a spliff...Kevvie wants to get mellow

And here's another one; wow, I'm practically vomiting creativity today!

shut the
fuck up
with your absurd
you stupid dum-dum
please fall
down into an
abandoned well in your
backyard so we
never have to
hear from

I've got to get over this intense loathing, but she keeps doing stupid things that interfere with my life. Ugh.

1 comment:

Lola said...

She's a verballific Einstein, ain't she?
Beautemous rant.