If you had pulled me aside during seventh grade and told me that, in just a few short years, my beloved Britney would be married, pregnant and chomping Cheetos on the cover of National Enquirer, I’d probably have sized you up, chuckled in pity and bitch-slapped you, Mo’Nique style, with the “-Baby One More Time” poster I stole from TeenBeat.
And, albeit extreme, my actions would’ve been totally justifiable.
See, back in the good ol’ days (read: 2001), Britney Spears wasn’t just a punchline. She was a performer (and a pretty good one, too). Like the Olsen twins before they flipped out and started wearing hobo clothes, Spears was marketable enough to become a media phenomenon without compromising her values. She played to sold-out venues; she sold albums by the million; and, above all, she dated Justin Timberlake (who, at the time, was, like, the hottest guy EVER!).
Yes, in her late-’90s prime, Britney had it all: a nation’s respect, a Maxim-worthy physique, a civilized beau and a very public V-card. Somewhere between then and now, however, she lost all four.
Some critics blame Spears’ downfall on an evolving music industry. Today’s hip-hop-crazed teenagers, they argue, don’t have time to bolster the popstars of yesteryear; as a result, it’s bye, bye Britney. These critics are morons.
If there’s anything I’ve learned from watching VH1’s The Fabulous Life of Britney Spears – and, trust me, I’ve learned more than you’d ever want to know – it’s that even socks sound extravagant if they’re presented via smarmy British voiceover. More importantly, though, I’ve realized that Britney’s newfound lunacy can be attributed to a single agent. And, pop culture-savvy readers that you are, you probably know this agent, because a) it looks like Vanilla Ice on crack, and b) it fathered Britney’s child.
(Oh, and for those that care, said agent also produced its own single. It’s called “PopoZao,” which, I’m told, is the Portugese equivalent of “badunkadunk.”)
In case you haven’t guessed, I’m referring to the one and only Kevin Federline – who, aside from corrupting the woman of my dreams, is also the reason why I almost shit myself during a routine trip to CVS last week.
According to the latest issue of US Weekly – which, as always, lured me away from the check-out line – Spears is pregnant with another Federling. That, or she’s gained another 30 pounds and missed a couple hair-dye appointments.
Either way, I’m sick of trashy, fucked up Britney. Where’s the Catholic school girl I fell in love with back in ’99? Or the Southern belle who sometimes runs and sometimes hides? Or the spandex-clad space goddess who’s self-admittedly “not that innocent”?
Earth to K-Fed: Take your baby (babies?) and disappear. I want my Britney back.
Medill sophomore Dan Macsai is the PLAY editor. He can be reached at [email protected].
