Deep thoughts and shitty poetry

I promised myself I wouldn't write any more about Britney for three reasons: (1) I think it is making all of us dumber; (2) I don't want this blog to be all Britney bashing, all the time; (3) Afterwards, I always feel like stuffing a handful of sleeping pills down my throat, committing hari kari and jumping out the window.

I got all excited for a moment because I figured her little meltdown interview with Matt Lauer would likely be the death of her. Wasn't that so entertaining? I loved it! Fat tears running down her chubby little cheeks, fake eyelash dangling, pursed frosty pink lips, gum snapping into the camera as she begged to be left alone, wailing that "we're people" and "we're country." With every twangy word uttered, every misty closeup of her Wet n' Wild makeup job, every junior -high spiritual-lite reference, every pan zoom revealing her bra strap hanging out of her skanky tank, my abject glee increased. Certainly this would be the end of my nemisis once and for all!

As usual, I'm wrong, because she's back already. After all her tearful pleading for everyone to leave her and Federline alone so they can live their white trash lifestyle in peace, she adds a new "deep" poem to our favorite hotbed of Brit idiocy, the "Stream of Consciousness" segment on her website. Here it is, folks. Get ready to think:


Tiger! Tiger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
—William Blake

In some ways, people are a lot like animals. We all hunger for the same things. Love, lust, danger, warmth and adventure. Like people, animals all have their own rhythm to life. I'm mesmerized by tigers. Their eyes, their stripes, their constant quest for survival. They almost have a sense of mysteriousness about them. They pull you in and make it difficult to look away. They make you wonder what is behind their gaze. A sense of eerie awe comes over you in their presence. The fear they give you when you pass them is stunning. Behold the beauty of a tiger.

Let's pause for a moment to take this all in. Here we have the cleverly titled "Tigers" (and, you know, why come up with something more abstract when you can get straight to the point), which kicks off with a quote from William Blake. Nice one, Brit—that will give people the impression that you know who William Blake is and that you actually read something besides the latest installment of Crankshaft. But after that promising start, everything just plummets and your audience is most likely left thinking the same thing I am: "Um, Child Protective Services? Time to pay another visit to the Federline household...this is proof positive that copious amounts of weed are being smoked in that place."

One wonders what else would have spawned such a musing, or if it could be anything other than something like this:

Britney (inhaling): So, like, baby, you know what I was just thinkin'?

K-Fed (sparking bong): How fucking sick my new trucker hat is?

Britney (exhaling): Like how tigers are so, like, big and, like, powerful and stuff and their, like, super-mysteriousness gives you this, like, eerie sense of awe, you know what I mean?

K-Fed (rolling): Oh, yeah...FUCK YEAH. I know exactly what you fucking mean, word.

Britney (inhaling): Like they make you look at them and say, like...wow, like, that's a big tiger.

K-Fed (packing pipe): Fucking-A, baby. Those fuckers are big.

Britney (exhaling): And they, like, just want to survive, you know? Just like humans.

K-Fed (sipping Colt 45): God, baby, you are so fucking right. They're so fucking much like people. With all the stripes and stuff.

Britney (inhaling): Oh my god, I'm like, sooooo inspired. I should totally write, like, a poem about this.

K-Fed (crunking): That's so fucking sweet.

Britney (exhaling): Wow, my fingernail polish is sparkly! I, like, never noticed that before!

K-Fed (giving up and just eating a handful of weed): Hey, where's that fuckin' little guy that's always shitting his pants?

Britney (inhaling and exhaling): You mean, like, Sean Preston?

K-Fed (doing the running man): Fuck yeah! That guy! He's like the fuckin' Kid Rock midget or something...

Well, now that I think about it, maybe Britty's desperate attempts to keep her name in the news aren't really that bad. It's awesome enough when a stupid celebrity thinks they can write. It's even better when they think they are writing really deep, provocative things. But it's best of all when they try to tackle poetry. Always ridiculous, always hilarious! So I guess you can just keep at it, Brit. I know you're probably bored out of your empty skull while you're waiting around until you drop your second kid, and all those little pesky thoughts flying around inside your head like flies trapped in a jar need to come out somehow. If you keep on relaying your unintentionally hilarious streams of consciousness, I will have no choice but to keep blogging about you. It's just too fun!


Anonymous said...

Hey, who's T. McGraw?

Lola said...

She's a veritable Anna Nicole of poetry.
Hey..did you get my drunken pic I sent at 3am your time? Sorry! That's what happens when I drink and dial! (Did you give me your home phone or your cell?)