A Hater Defends BritneyJeepers, I didn't sleep a wink last night due to my obsessive, intrusive thoughts on all things Britney.
What, you're surprised?
Well then, you obviously do not know Ms. Lori very well, do you?
I obsess over the thought of my cat dying, for Christ's sake. Every day for the past month or so, I stare lovingly into my cat's eyes, my own welling with hot tears, and murmur "I will miss you when you die." Sometimes I say, "When you die, I will purchase another cat just like you..."
I say the latter while focusing intently on her face, so that its image will be forever burned into my brain. I want to remember each freckle on her nose, every whisker...You know, for when she's dead and all.
It's no wonder my cat has been trying her best to stay clear of ol' crazy, obsessive, morbid, depressing Mommy. I don't blame her one damn bit.
So anyway, after I turned off the tube last night, I tossed and turned, kept thinking about poor Britney Spears and that dreadful MTV Video Music Awards performance of hers, thought to myself that I'd just witnessed one of the worst displays of career suicide ever, kept pondering the whys and whatnots of her shocking-pink skin color, Cut & Kurl discount weave, embarrassing stage-wandering (did she think she was taking a leisurely stroll on the Las Vegas Strip, perchance?), and humiliatingly obvious lack of practice, discipline, self-respect, and...Sanity.
So troubled was I by my Britney thoughts, I leaped from my bed (facile like a doe, graceful as a windblown flower) and ran to my office for a smoke and some Internet gossip. Had to see if others thought the same as I, if others were obsessing much, and tossing and turning, and feeling like the world was at its end.
They were, and they did, every last gossip monger and sad, obsessive soul had joined together in an evil, gleeful chorus of hate, and I rejoiced, and I banged two rocks together and grunted in agreement, yet..
Fat, she is not.
Take a gander at that bod, people, and I dare you, if you're a woman with even a smidgen of vanity, to tell me that you wouldn't be happy with that knockout figure. Go on, I DARE you.
Hell, most women who've never even had one kid, let alone two, like Britney, never looked like that, nor will they ever. They didn't in high school, they didn't in college, and they damn sure won't after they pop out a human being or three.
She has great legs, a fantastic ass, a wonderful, healthy and slim tummy (women are NOT supposed to have six-packs, dummies), and despite the unfortunate choice of wardrobe, hairstylist, and forty Red Bull and vodkas (hence her stage-wandering and trembling, crooked lip?), Britney looks perfectly lovely.
Okay, so her thigh blotted out the entire bottom half of one of the emaciated male dancers when she wrapped it around his serpentine waist, then almost knocked him to the ground when she wagged it suggestively, but still. She looks great. Not fat. Sexy. Not cow-like. Hot. Not walrus-y. Healthy.
To sum up my completely unimportant and worthless point here, I'd just like to state -- emphatically -- that I am publicly defending Britney Spears' body, because honestly, I've been coming up empty in the blog posting department as of late, so this is all you get.
Tune in next week for an equally scintillating blog post about my cat's adorable anus.