An Open Letter from Britney Spears...
Hi, everyone!! How was your President's day weekend? Went shopping? Laid around 'fucking the dog', as J.T. used to say, back when we were together? Good, good... Uh, my weekend? Hoo, boy...
See, It's like this... For years now, I've been the reigning pop diva, and along with you all buying my cd's, and going to my concerts, and watching 'Crossroads', I've been pretty much the Homecoming Queen of contemporary American culture. But this weekend, I had what alcoholics call, 'a moment of clarity'. See, I was in this nightclub so exclusive that the most popular girl you went to high school with wouldn't have a bricklayer's chance of getting into. So there I was in the 'chill-out' room, doin' what I like to call 'shake-n-bake' (a little concoction of my own consisting of cocaine and ground-up Percocet) when some Nina Simone came on the sound system.
And for one goofy moment, I had a flash of inspiration. Maybe my next album could be a cover of old torch song standards! I could do some Edith Piaf, some Billie Holiday, heck, maybe even some Judy Garland (for all my gay fans! Love you guys! Mwah!) Then it occurred to me... Who the fuck cares? Look, I'll let you in on a little secret... I'm not really that good a singer, am I? I mean, I can carry a tune, and with a little practice I can play Scott Joplin's "The Entertainer" on a piano, but really... In a sane world where actual talent is proportional to one's success, I'd be lucky to be doing backup vocals for a car dealership's jingle. The only reason I'm so popular is because all you girls (and some guys,tee hee) want to be me, and all you boys (and your middle-aged dads-eww, gross!) want to fuck me. That's it, really. My entire career is based on wanting what you can't have. Namely, little ol' me!
After all the test-marketing (seriously, somewhere in Sherman Oaks some focus group is being asked, with a straight face, 'would you like Kelly Clarkson to sing about Global Warming?') pre-production, sound production, post-production and what not, my actual creative contribution to my own music is equivalent to the guy at the G.M. plant who puts the back seats in the mini-van. Real singers like Nina Simone, Bille H., and Edith Piaf still affect us after all this time because their voices were full of all the yearning, heartbreak, and emotion that had gone into living their lives. What the fuck, really, do I have to say? That I'm bummed 'cuz my Ferrari has Spanish leather seats when I wanted Italian leather? Boo fucking hoo. I mean, if I really knuckled down and worked at it, I might have a shot at being a fifth-rate Alanis Morrisette. So, forget that shit...
I guess my subconscious was telling me that it's been a fun ride while it's lasted, but it's time for me to get off this roller coaster. An act of penance, if you will. C'mon, guys, don't pout. We've had some laughs, you've had your thrills, your little brother came of age when he beat off over my Rolling Stone poster; you know, the one where I'm dressed like an eight year old holding a teddy bear- kinda creepy in retrospect...So it's over. I'm leaving the spotlight, I'm leaving the whole entertainment industry. Let's face it, I don't see you all pining over the halcyon days of Debbie Gibson or Tiffany. And really, aren't I just Debbie with a belly button piercing?
Okay, so tell you all what... You make all the jokes you want to, and I'll leave, quietly and gracefully. I'll even start you out..."Look, it's Bald-ney Shears!" "Uncle Fester!" "Seinaid O'Connor!" "G.I. Jane!" "Aliens III Ripley!"-oh, and my favorite one so far..."Now the drapes match the carpet!" Oh, ha, ha. Thank Madonna for that one. Dried-up old hag... Oh, look, I promised myself I wouldn't be bitter about this, but it's time for me to move on. Sorry for wasting your time, everyone,
Huh? What's that? What's my game plan now? Welp, I'm gonna change my name, move to a split-level bungalow with the kids, drive a mid-level sedan like a Toyota Corolla, work part-time at a Target all somewhere in the mid-west, presumably where normal people don't give a shit about my warm, pink, and totally hairless. I'm keeping all the money, though. I may be crazy, but I ain't stupid... Don't come looking for me, please. And if anyone stares at me a little longer than normal, and asks me, "Hey! Didn't you used to be somebody?..." I'll just say, "Nope. I never was."
And that's the truth.
Peace out,
Britney.
(P.S. Kevin, BTW, I lied. Four inches erect is NOT the average.)
(Ah, who'm I trying to kid? If B. says anything, It'll be like this...)
DEER EVERBODEE.
FUK ALL-Y-ALL!!!
PEESE OWT_4_MY_NIGGAZ!!!
B.
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