Tuesday, February 20, 2007
No more, you whores
It’s kind of old news that Britney went all nutzoid and shaved her head last Friday in a Beverly Hills beauty salon and soon thereafter went on a Red Bull fueled rampage at a local tattoo parlor metamorphosizing herself into tatted-up punk-rock-pounding skinhead circa late 1980’s (minus the red suspenders, although judging by her taste in threads - or rags – she probably owns a pair), but I knew this was coming.
And when I say I knew this was coming, I don’t mean, I knew this was coming as soon as I saw her saggy pus-lips splayed all over the internets, but saw this coming back when she was wearing a thong outside her jeans and telling us to hit her, baby, one more time.
This is because I’ve always felt that Britney Spears, not Anna Nicole Smith, is (or was) the Marilyn Monroe of our generation. Before Feder’s line probed every orifice in her body, she always seemed like a product of a well-lubed PR team. A puppet if you will, with such an ignorant itch to be “famous” that she was willing to do and say anything her publicist told her to, which I believe led to rebellion and her ultimate demise.
Think about it, not too hard, think about it Britney-style, okay, nevermind, think a little bit….
BF (Before Federline) Brit was a polished, pretty superstar. She was never very articulate, but then again, never said anything controversial (physically she wrote novels of controversy, but it was her shtick) even going to the extent of defending President Bush in Ferinheit 9-11 and grasping tight onto the notion that she was a virgin. She was “the girl next store” and “the Lolita” - a combination of stereotypes drawn from previously created characters that have throughout time proven to intrigue in volume. She was a marketing strategy, a two-dimentional image rather than an actual human being with complex feelings (her most profound expression was “I’m not a girl, not yet woman”), original thoughts, or flaws (she hid smoking cigarettes although we all know she sucks down two packs a day). She was also worked like a two-dollar crack whore and probably felt like life was passing her by = pausing her career, an attraction to Paris Hilton, having babies, partying like it’s 1999.
…Ugh, okay, I’m putting way more thought into Britney’s psyche then she puts into her own children. The fact that I’m giving this backwards hillbilly who should’ve been swallowed by a wave during hurricane Katrina this much attention is making the tuna sandwich I had for lunch creep back up my throat, so I’m just going to end with this thought:
I don’t think Fed- Ex was the reason for her downfall. I think adults force feeding her a cookie-cutter personality from an impressionable age and not allowing her to develop on her own accord drove her to this S for Sinead O’Conner look:
I actually like her head shaved better than that Garth from Waynes World look she was rocking before:
But, if she’s still into looking like a mess, I’ve got a few stylistic ideas for her:
The Marge
The Carrot Top
The Flock of Seagulls
The Don King
Okay…you know what…I’m going to attempt to make this my last post about celebrities. It’s so pointless. I’m just turning this blog into a lotusland of guilty pleasures in an attempt to avoid thinking about crap in my own life…ugh. No more...with the exception of poems for celebrity boobage, peen, and piss. I disgust myself.
Here comes the tuna.
And when I say I knew this was coming, I don’t mean, I knew this was coming as soon as I saw her saggy pus-lips splayed all over the internets, but saw this coming back when she was wearing a thong outside her jeans and telling us to hit her, baby, one more time.
This is because I’ve always felt that Britney Spears, not Anna Nicole Smith, is (or was) the Marilyn Monroe of our generation. Before Feder’s line probed every orifice in her body, she always seemed like a product of a well-lubed PR team. A puppet if you will, with such an ignorant itch to be “famous” that she was willing to do and say anything her publicist told her to, which I believe led to rebellion and her ultimate demise.
Think about it, not too hard, think about it Britney-style, okay, nevermind, think a little bit….
BF (Before Federline) Brit was a polished, pretty superstar. She was never very articulate, but then again, never said anything controversial (physically she wrote novels of controversy, but it was her shtick) even going to the extent of defending President Bush in Ferinheit 9-11 and grasping tight onto the notion that she was a virgin. She was “the girl next store” and “the Lolita” - a combination of stereotypes drawn from previously created characters that have throughout time proven to intrigue in volume. She was a marketing strategy, a two-dimentional image rather than an actual human being with complex feelings (her most profound expression was “I’m not a girl, not yet woman”), original thoughts, or flaws (she hid smoking cigarettes although we all know she sucks down two packs a day). She was also worked like a two-dollar crack whore and probably felt like life was passing her by = pausing her career, an attraction to Paris Hilton, having babies, partying like it’s 1999.
…Ugh, okay, I’m putting way more thought into Britney’s psyche then she puts into her own children. The fact that I’m giving this backwards hillbilly who should’ve been swallowed by a wave during hurricane Katrina this much attention is making the tuna sandwich I had for lunch creep back up my throat, so I’m just going to end with this thought:
I don’t think Fed- Ex was the reason for her downfall. I think adults force feeding her a cookie-cutter personality from an impressionable age and not allowing her to develop on her own accord drove her to this S for Sinead O’Conner look:
I actually like her head shaved better than that Garth from Waynes World look she was rocking before:
But, if she’s still into looking like a mess, I’ve got a few stylistic ideas for her:
The Marge
The Carrot Top
The Flock of Seagulls
The Don King
Okay…you know what…I’m going to attempt to make this my last post about celebrities. It’s so pointless. I’m just turning this blog into a lotusland of guilty pleasures in an attempt to avoid thinking about crap in my own life…ugh. No more...with the exception of poems for celebrity boobage, peen, and piss. I disgust myself.
Here comes the tuna.
// posted by Whoreese @ 1:10 PM 
