One does not expect a generally accepted sex kitten or pop princess to have bad skin, frazzled hair, or the manners of a goat, but from one unnaturally long hour with Ms. Spears, one can only take away the notion that in her private time, without the lights and glamour of the stage, she is even worse than we ever suspected. This is a woman now past the legal age of adulthood, and yet her humor derives solely from crude sex jokes and facial contortions; you know, the sorts of things that make the rounds at your average elementary school playground. There isn’t a shred of maturity to be found in this woman, and from all appearances she has been so isolated by fame that the basic rules of social interaction were long ago scraped away in favor of a permanent adolescence.
But that’s what the more reserved side of my nature would have you think. More bluntly, this was the most heinous sixty minutes of television in years. Perhaps ever. Britney Spears, no longer even remotely sexy or appealing, is little more than a hillbilly whore with pounds of the finest cosmetics to cover her endless patches of acne. Her once proud bosom is now a caricature of lasciviousness; a silicone-enhanced joke fed to the public in order to retain relevance in a world that continually finds new skanks to grace their magazine covers. She’s not only yesterday’s papers; she has the foul smell of such a rag wrapped around a rotten fish! She has become everything we knew she’d eventually let escape once her guard was down — the nastiest, most vapid nitwit who just happens to have the financial power to buy us all.
In Episode 1, Britney is still defiantly single, although she spends every waking on-camera moment engaged in pity parties and sexual longing. She defines her shell of a life by the men she either wants or cannot have, yet has the temerity to ask us if we can “handle her truth.” And what the hell would that be? That we cannot face the fact that we have bestowed a sultan’s fortune on a human being who surely struggles with the multiplication tables and would flinch with sheer terror if presented with anything resembling a book? That while you struggle to pay your rent, the big-titted equivalent of a cigar store Indian wanders aimlessly around a $3000-a-night London hotel room only accidentally bringing about subject-verb agreement?
Once Kevin Federline shows up (the only human being who might lose to Britney in a game of Trivial Pursuit), we have entered a realm from which thinking folks never return. Those minutes were like unending blows to the kidneys, or a late night curbing followed by eye gouging and brass knuckles to the head, face, and neck. I prayed for death, but having no belief in a higher power, I was forced to endure the sort of human interaction that cannot be replicated in any lab. Needless to say, she tried like hell to convince us that Kevin is the epitome of American manhood, but at no time did she speak to anything other than his cocksmanship. From the looks of him, he would appear to lack the energy to get up from the couch, but Britney insists that he can rock her sheets multiple times a day, leading to what she calls “a glow.” I’m not sure my life ever required the knowledge that Ms. Spears was being hammered hourly by a former welfare recipient from the Ozarks, but the nature of the information is such that I’m afraid I can never put it out of mind. Such words burn on the brain like a childhood rape, or the repeated late night visits from one’s drunken father. And yet there are many hours to come……
I’ve vowed to watch episode 2, but can’t make any promises after that. It’s FAR worse than Rich Girls or that Jessica Simpson X-mas special.
If there’s any silver lining to this week’s lobotomy, it’s that the suffering carried on for only 30 minutes, rather than the 60 minutes of the debut episode. Still, the same antics continued. Britney made faces, Kevin tried desperately to articulate a position that wasn’t overly similar to a red-faced, sweaty retard roaring for his fifteenth helping of pudding, and Britney’s 400-pound bodyguard made threats and registered his suspicions about this “new dude”, while some of the most unerotic kissing between two bipeds took place nearby.
The highlight, naturally, was an extended sequence in a van, where Britney interrogated her drivers about the source of a particularly nasty fart. No one fessed up, although glancing at Kevin’s I-haven’t-bathed-since-we-started-this-European-tour appearance, it seems obvious that the smell was emanating from his defiantly unscrubbed crotch. But we do learn that poor Kevin is the child of divorce, and he lived in motels for quite some time before daring to dream by moving to Los Angeles. Mom sure would be proud that her “little Kevie-Wevie” has now turned unapologetic leeching into high art, exceeded only by his smirking laziness. For two weeks now, I’ve never seen anyone do so much lounging with such effortless abandon. Except when he slides down tabletops in his sweatsocks.
This is also the kind of episode where the producers think so little of their audience that they must inform them, via titles, that London is in the United Kingdom and that Copenhagen is a city in Denmark. No doubt these cretins and fools appreciate the heads up, just in case they ever decide to leave backwater Arkansas.
Kevin’s Weekly W.H. Auden Moment: “Look at that ass. Yeeeaaahhhh.”
For the third week running, Britney proved to be preternaturally wise and reflective, asking repeatedly why she’s so scared of committing to the mere idea of love. She pondered deeply, weighed her options, prayed, and consulted the poets for instruction. Failing to find the solace she so desperately coveted, she farted in her bodyguard’s face, picked her nose, and passed out in her own vomit, mumbling something about the burdens of fame and god-given talent.
Kevin’s Weekly W.H. Auden Moment: “I was scared. What the fuck chy’all do?”