Because I know we gossip freaks exist, and exist in shamefully high numbers, I'm not even going to operate under the pretense that people might not have watched Dateline tonight and the hour-long Britney Spears "KFC thigh and breast combo with two sides(#3 )" special. Apparently, Dateline has run out of online predators staring at the camera caught like a deer in headlights, so they have moved onto the poor prey that is Mrs. Federline, with child, natch.
(I have decided that is the LAST TIME I WILL USE THAT AWFUL "..., natch" tag in my blog. My mom told me to just "say no".)
Good God, it was a total trainwreck.
Let's hope the GFY ladies get on her for the platform flip flops, frayed denim mini skirt, and a-little-something-for-them-there-menfolk shirt, because her get-up felt purposeful. Like "LOOK AT ME. MY LIFE IS A MESS. LOOK AT HOW MY HANDLERS LET ME OUT IN BROAD DAYLIGHT IN A DESPERATE PLEA FOR HELP."
And then there was the inexcusable gum popping. Poor Matt Lauer. There he is in loafers with no socks asking Britney-Effing-Spears if Kevin Federline lives on the main floor of her house while Katie Couric is going to be announcing to us all the woes of the world with new solomnly appropriate lipgloss. Britney avoided answering the question directly, and retorts with a pop of gum, which was the wrong answer. CLEARLY, the right answer was to get that clump of mascara off your right (my left) eye and to say that you are a benevolent ex-post facto hottie who likes to keep it COUNTRY, but not redneck thankyouverymuch.
This woman was a pro. She didn't answer a DAMN question that Matty-poo asked her, just kept going back to Goldie Hawn, her new mother figure. Frankly, I would have stuck with Madonna. Who's got more money? Who's got the toned arms? Yeah, not Goldie.
Britney has always had a personal benchmark with me-- one of my good friends and she share a birthday. My friend is pursuing acting and her womb is thankfully fruitless. And Brit-Brit? She is on dateline fake-airing her dirty laundry. More like dirty laundry show, but no tell.
I loved every minute of it. My friend and roommate sat with me in the living room, and it was like a 20-something girl version of Mystery Science Theater 3000. Only instead of old bad movies, it's someone's LIFE. I barely paid attention to my beer, let alone anyone else. My father called to chat because his life has been hell on earth at work and he finally could stop crawling around power plant tunnels, and I had the audacity to say "gee, Dad, Britney's on Dateline-- can I give you a call tomorrow?"
Happy Father's Day 'n' crap, Dad. I sent you a card and I hope you feel the guilt that I harbor from here. To make it up to you, I may have already purchased you a present. Also, I hereby swear to stay this far away from back-up dancers, men who leave their pregnant girlfriends, and white men with cornrows.