An optimist would say that finally, Britney Spears' curtains match her drapes. A pessimist would say she needs to tattoo a cesarean scar across her skull for the match. Don't worry pessimists. At this rate, a coroner's saw will be the next metal object creasing this poor child's cranimum.
The head shaving thing is but an appetizer on the suicide menu, and it makes me sad that after this attention-getting device fails to garner any sympathy, a dinner-portion barbiturate salad will be the entree.
If she were anyone else, PBS would be doing a documentary on how government should help the runaways of Lousiana. But she's not just anyone. She's Britney Spears, everyone's favorite punching bag. I don't think anyone cares about her anymore. Not her parents, probably in a lawyer's office arguing with themselves or the Lohans right now. Not her brain dead children. Not her handlers. Not me. No one. She's been raised as a human ATM and it takes it's toll after years of having no one willing to lose money by doing something in favor of her safety, sanity, and security.
As for jokesters and pop psychologists such as myself, what did that chick really ever do to you?
OK, her sexy innocence in that schoolgirl outfit whilst beckoning us on TV to engage in coitus was quite a tease, I'll admit. But being hostile toward this sad girl suggests that you actually thought you had a shot at her.
OK, she made hundreds of millions of dollars and had everything handed to her in exchange for very little talent, I'll admit. But did she take the job you were going to get? For real? You were standing in line behind her at the jailbait auditions in the 90's? Well, you certainly have a gripe against Britney.
Tommy the Tard sent me an email the other day. This is the second one I've received from our old pal in Roswell in 9 years, so it warrants posting. I replied that I was glad to hear from him and look forward to more rambling emails about everything and nothing. That's right, I asked Tommy the Tard to be my pen pal. If I don't get hired soon I'm going to shave everything, even my skin, so I look like the picture of the guy in the doctor's office with just his muscular system showing. I even gave him my cell phone number. God, how I miss that wackjob's musings. He really kept me sane.
Here's the first of what I hope will be many Tommy the Tard postings:
Dear Larry!!!!! I have finished repairing all my radios, except for an old Atwater-Kent-- It has all of it;s tubes, but needs rewiring. I think i;ll buy some boxes of knish at the Publix Supermarket---- I am sick of grits!TOMMY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
And that's it.