I remember the first time I saw Britney Spears. She was featured in a special section of the Delia’s catalogue I always looked through and never ordered from when I was in seventh grade.
In the following years, I would grow up, so would she, and I would follow her every step. She was mine, my star, and everything about her was mine to know. I once bought two copies of the “Oops!…I Did It Again” album just to make sure I was doing my part to boost her sales in the first week the album was released. I own a copy of Crossroads on DVD, y’all.
My Britney thing was SERIOUS.
Every morning (and allow me to remind you here that I was 22 and not 12), I’d wake up, check my email, E! Online, then Facebook. I honestly can’t tell you how my obsession got to this point. It could be that her story had been so riveting—this was the era of shaving her head and attacking paparazzi with umbrellas and marrying Kevin Federline.
Maybe it’s that my story wasn’t riveting—I’d gotten everything I said I wanted, and it was super, super boring.
Then I saw an episode of South Park called “Britney’s New Look.”
It starts with Britney blowing her head off and surviving. The paparazzi won’t leave her alone, so the boys, feeling guilty, try to save her by taking her to the North Pole to hide. The plan unwinds when they discover the real reason behind the public obsession with Britney: her death would be a ritualistic sacrifice to guarantee a good harvest.
That episode took me on the heaviest guilt trip I’ve ever been on, and, if you know my mother, you know that’s really saying something. Before the first commercial break, I’d dropped my glass of horrible tequila punch left over from a Tila Tequila watch party we’d had the night before. I got three phone calls from friends checking to make sure I was OK.
I threw all my gossip rags in the trash. I deleted the bookmarks to the many (SERIOUSLY KAT WTF) celebrity gossip websites I read daily. Britney Spears was falling apart in front of me and it was, like, absolutely my personal fault. I had to save her.
I had to save her by leaving her alone.
Here’s what I discovered in my “Time Away” from Perez Hilton: first, most regular, mainstream, high brow news is actually just as gossip-ridden as the celebrity kind. I guess you might learn something worthwhile if you choose to roll around in one pile of shit over the other, but probably not, so, you know, choose whatever shit you like.
And second, Jesus Christ, Britney! I look away for two goddamn seconds and you’re living with some slob Hokie who shops at American Eagle!? FOR GODSAKE, WOMAN.
I left you alone to save you, and this is how you repay me?
I’m not going to pull a Carrie Bradshaw on all of you, throwing a stupid play-on-words question into the lead and then answering it with some deep play-on-words bullshit in the kicker.
But did you know Perez Hilton has a radio show now? This is a person who used MS Paint to draw dicks on people’s faces, publicly, and now he’s so normal that he’s on ClearChannel Top 40 stations nationwide. (Jason, are you paying attention? THAT COULD BE YOU SOMEDAY.)
If there is a moral to this story, it’s this: more penis.
Released January 12, 2004.