November 01, 2007
Letter of Truth: Part An Infinite Supply of Bad Idea Jeans
Um! Look. I don't know WHY y'all are all acting all WORKED UP every time I leave the house, but I was taught that just because things are going all backasswards in your life like when OLD FAT JUDGES decide that just because you can't always tell your kids apart maybe you should stop doing drugs, it doesn't mean you're not allowed to dress up like a P-I-M-P and get your drink on, okay? I saw on Judge Joe Brown yesterday that it's NORMAL for people to use ALCOHOL to solve their problems so why don't all y'all just LEAVE ME ALONE. But take my picture first.
Whatever the opposite of LOVE is,
September 27, 2007
Letter of Fug: Part MOMMY'S CRYING
Psssssst. Hey, you alls. Come over here.
Shhhh. Be very quiet. I'm not supposed to be talking to anyone because "my downward spiral is too depressing." I don't know how that's possible since I don't even have a spiral perm but whatever. The people who post up these letter thingies on the internets think I don't hear them when they call me "Princess Tragedy Trainwreck" behind my back, but I have ears just like the walls do IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN. Anyway. I know people are all oh my god she's a terrible mother and a really bad driver and we totally miss her snake and I am here to tell you that that snake was totally a pain in the ass so you should get over that part of it right now. All the rest of it will work out just fine if all y'all would just CHILL and OPEN YOUR EYES and see that I am WEARING SHOES IN THIS HERE BATHROOM. God. And people (MOM) say I don't ever listen to anybody's advice.
It's MISS BRITNEY BITCH because you are nasty.
August 16, 2007
Letter of Fug: Part SHUT UP Y'ALL SERIOUSLY. GOD.
I don't EVEN KNOW. I mean, seriously, y'all, sometimes I wake up in the morning and it's like 3:30 and the new nanny is watching Oprah and and the kids are running around and screaming and wanting things from me and I just think, "DAMN, BRITNEY. What have you gotten yourself IN TO NOW?"
Because I really thought that when I divorced Kevin, Justin would come back in and marry me or maybe Colin Farrell or somebody else with an accent and then we'd run off to Gulfport or wherever and he'd spend all day combing my hair and Sean P and the other one would bring me Popsicles and we'd all be so happy but instead I ended up shaving my head and then some other stuff happened that I don't totally remember but I'm pretty sure most of it was my mama's fault, like I never would have done that whole thing with OK Magazine if she had LOVED ME MORE or something. I'm pretty sure I read that in a magazine right next to a story about how I am having a lesbian affair with my assistant which is TOTALLY UNFAIR because that only lasted like three weeks. And then people started making this whole big deal about how I wanted to whiten Sean P's teeth like they never looked at their baby's teeth and wondered why they looked so yellow or forgot to change their diapers. I am a WORKING MOTHER, Y'ALL. It's NOT EASY keeping up APPEARANCES and taking care of A BABY. Two babies. However many babies. And my face is my FORTUNE, Y'ALL. I am an ENTERTAINER. I have to go out and BE ENTERTAINING and I think I am A SUCCESS. For serious, have you seen how many people take my picture every night? It's because I am HOT.
For serious, I am WORKING SO HARD to make a life for me and my family of however many kids it is and all I hear is BLAH BLAH BLAH LOOK AT HER HAIR. WHERE ARE HER PANTS? WHY DOES SHE WEAR THOSE ILL-FITTING CHEAP-LOOKING UNFLATTERING BROWN BOOTS ALL OVER THE PLACE? ISN'T THAT A SHIRT AND NOT A DRESS? BLAAAAAH. I just want all y'all to SHUT UP. I MEAN it. If I want to have a lesbian affair with one of my employees and get drunk in front of my kids and pay my neighbor fifty bucks to Google "baby plastic surgery" for me so no one finds out that I'm thinking about getting the little one a chin implant THAT'S MY BUSINESS. And so what if everyone finds out that Kevin used to grind up my medication and hide it in my milkshakes and that's why I didn't used to act quite as crazy? Does that make him some kind of HERO? Just because he gives the kids CARROT STICK THINGS instead of NUGGETS? Kids LOVE nuggets! Everyone knows that! Do I have to write a book? Maybe I will write a book. I'll write a book called KIDS LOVE NUGGETS by Britney Lynne Spears or whatever my middle name is and it'll be a hit just like Harry Potter and THEN WON'T EVERYONE BE SORRY THEY TRIED TO MAKE ME QUIT DRINKING. HA!
Suck on it, toolsheds. YEAH, I MEAN YOU.
April 05, 2007
Letter of Fug: Part Wig
So, yeah. It's been a while, right? I've been....busy. You know, with some stuff. Boring stuff where I had to make my own bed and talk about all my PROBLEMS and whatever, while I think we all know that my biggest problem rhymed with BEVIN KEDERFINE. And now everyone likes him or something, just because he was all taking care of the babies while I tried to beat him with an umbrella which IS NOT THAT BIG A DEAL. Anyway. I'm out and about again, THANK GOD:
WHAT? Like you haven't ever SPILLED on a WHITE SHIRT? What's with all the JUDGING? Frankly, I think y'all should just be happy that I am ALIVE. Because for a while there, people seemed to be wondering if I WOULDN'T BE and there was all this "wah wah, I'll never be able to work out to 'Toxic' again if she dies" and now that I'm not dead it's like some big deal if I don't have a BRA ON or something. You all need to admit that you are powerless over if I wear underwear or not and make a fearless and searching moral inventory of YOUR OWN SELVES and LEAVE ME ALONE and just be glad that I look happy and sorta toned. Go bug Jamie Lynn or something.
Whatever. I still hate everyone.
April 03, 2007
Nickelodeon Kids' Choice Awards Fug Carpet: Jamie-Lynn Spears
"Hi y'all! It's been ages since I've been out and about, allowing myself to be seen. It's been kind of an awkward year. For a while there I was mostly hiding behind bushes, or running upstairs and slamming the door and locking it and turning up my Fall Out Boy CD really loudly to drown out the sounds of my sister banging on it and yelling at me to braid her hair, or rip out her hair, or try getting a brush through her hair, or wash her hair, or tell her she had pretty hair -- or toward the end, lotion up her scalp. I tried to be there for her, because I love her, but sometimes, a girl's just gotta hide under the bed with her BlackBerry and her stuffed dog Mr. Muffins. Right?
"Still, I'm here, and I'm doing swell! I'm a little overtanned -- all that time under the bed made me a little pasty, and I got overexcited when I snuck out to buy bronzer -- but otherwise, really, I look pretty great. Or at least that's what everyone keeps telling me. Well, okay, Britney didn't say that; she asked me to spot her $20 and then told me my shoes could fetch a nice price on eBay if I never wore them again. But my brother saw me and burst into tears and said something like, "It's a miracle" and muttered words like "normal" and "dodge" and "bullet" into my shoulder while he was sobbing on it, and my mother didn't say anything, but while she was locking my chastity belt's bonus padlock, she looked really relieved and proud for a second. In fact, I'm getting a lot of that -- people keep squeezing me on the shoulder, or hugging me extra tight, and telling me how clean I look as they wipe the tears out of their eyes. I'm not sure why they're so emotional, although apparently Hilary Duff's new album is really raw so maybe they were just listening to that on their iPods. I can't wait to put out an album. Mom said I could become a singer on the 10th of Never, but then B came in and threw a vase at her and then tried to light her copy of Crossroads on fire, so I never got to sit down and ask her when that is, but I think it's, like, Roman for "November," which... AWESOME! I had better get writing! Get ready, y'all!"
February 17, 2007
Letter of Truth, Emergency Weekend Update: Baldy Edition
What? Like y'all ain't seen a girl having a nervous breakdown shave her head before?
[Photo via Oh No They Didn't!]
I look like an alien, y'all! An alien from planet SPEARS. Or maybe like a....no, like an alien. A sexy, sexy alien. And everyone can just SHUT UP about how I'm supposed to be on drugs and how I was only in rehab for ten minutes -- I WAS JUST DROPPING OFF A PACKAGE TO THOSE REHAB PLACES, because I am, um....I'm totally working for REHAB MEALS ON WHEELS. It's a CHARITY! -- and how I'm totally losing my custody battle (whatever that even is) and blah blah blah blah. Aren't you happy that I'm not all showing you if the rugs match the curtains anymore? (PS: NOW THEY DO. HAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHA. I'm tired.)
I just wish people would stop paying so much attention to me! Can't a girl get some PRIVACY? I'm just quietly trying to live my life, y'all. I don't know why I have to be FOLLOWED everywhere! It's not like I want all of everyone's attention all the time. Would you say that I'm acting like I want people to look at me? Because I would not.
God, my bald head RULES. I am going to save so much money on extensions and hair dye and shampoo and conditioner and hair spray and more extensions and now I can fire that hairdresser my mother hired after I went on Matt Lauer so I "didn't look like a feral cat." Whatever, MOTHER, I think feral cats are pretty -- they have blue eyes! -- but now you don't even have to WORRY ABOUT IT. Because lookit, everyone: NO HAIR AT ALL! So SUCK ON it, magazine who said my hair might fall out from over-dying: I'ma STARTING OVER. Like that TV show. Is that still even on? I liked that show. I should go ON THAT SHOW. YES. That is a great idea. I'm going to call my agent right now. I wonder who my agent is.
Okay. Stuff to do. So much to do. So much stuff for me to do. I have to go buff my head and then call my agent about Starting Over and then I need to place ten to twelve heavy breathing calls to Justin and then I need to call J.C Chasez and ask if I can open for him when he goes on tour, just like the old days, and then if he says yes, I need to write some songs real fast and then I need to go buy some beer and then I need to moisturize my tattoo and then I have some other stuff to do that I can't remember and then I need check to in and make sure my little girls are still alive and then I need -- oh, wait, they're totally boys, my bad -- and then I need to go get a sandwich. GOD. I better get on it.
Okay, talk to you later, guys! Bye! Bye! Bye! Why am I so amped right now? Maybe I need to sit down. No. I don't. Okay! Bye!
PS: OR BALD-NEY! HA. I just thought of that. Maybe I should start doing some STAND-UP! HOW AWESOME WOULD THAT BE? Okay. Bye for real.
January 04, 2007
Letter of Fug: Part REVENGE
I know it's been a while, but listen -- I've been real busy with things. And I know a lot of y'all think I've been acting real trashy since Kevin and I split up, but listen, it was a ROUGH TWO YEARS THERE. Sometimes a girl just need to take her vagina out for some air, and that's all I was doing, so maybe you shouldn't judge me so much because if you'd been married to Kevin Federline for however long we were married, you would go on a binge later too. Anyway, I had this whole thing planned out where I explained WHY I stopped wearing panties for a little while and WHY I was pole-dancing with Paris Hilton and stuff, but then I found this, and I need to take care of it, first:
LISTEN PARIS: YOU STAY AWAY FROM MY MAN. I mean it. YOU STAY AWAY. OR I WILL TOTALLY CUT YOU. Everyone thinks I'm so dumb, but these are things I know:
a) Justin is single again
2) You and I are friends all of a sudden
3) you totally love to hook up with your friends's ex-boyfriends. Like you took Stabby Nachos, if that is in fact his real name, from the little tiny Olsen. And then you did the same thing to like four other girls and their boyfriends that I can't remember anymore.
d) ERGO: You are TOTALLY going to try to hook up with JUSTIN NOW. DON'T DENY IT. I KNOW YOU ARE. I KNOW IT. AND THAT IS BULLSHIT. IF ANYONE IS GETTING BACK TOGETHER -- OR TOGETHER...OR WHATEVER -- WITH JUSTIN, IT IS ME. ME! ME ME ME ME ME.
So I mean it. Stay away. Get away. Get far away. Because that skinny little Olsen girl is too little to screw with you, but I am NOT. I have still got some baby weight and I will use all of it to RIP OUT YOUR SKANK EXTENSIONS. You MIGHT be able to talk me into pole-dancing naked in your rec room or whatever, but I am NOT going to let you get away with THIS. I have been PLANTING THE SEEDS OF REUNION (I heard that on a commercial for Days once) for like FOUR YEARS and you are not going to UNDO IT ALL. You might have a deal with the DEVIL -- oh, I said it. I think you're THE BRIDE OF SATAN and I really mean that like FOR REAL, not metaphorifically , I think you ACTUALLY WENT INTO HELL and took Satan's hand and pledged to serve him for ALL ETERNITY and wore a veil and everything -- but I sang "Oops, I Did It Again," and I'm just as rich as you are and if I have to fight THE DEVIL to get Justin back, I WILL.
PS: I really mean it.
November 28, 2006
Fuggis and Fugney
So, I totally have a new friend to tell you about today! It didn't really work out with Nicole when she was blonde (and between you and me, Diary, she is even less fun with the brown hair -- I mean, what's the point of having dark hair if you aren't hiding weed underneath it?), and, like, oh my GOD, dude, Kimberly Stewart was really NEEDY. She called me ten times a day until I made her cry that last time, and I SWEAR I caught her rooting through my bathroom trashcan, picking out my old extensions and taping them to a hair clip. Which, EW -- it looked EXACTLY like a hair clip from a drugstore, and not the FUN kind of drugstore, so GROSS.
Anyway, so I found this new blonde person now and I think it's going to work out because even though she kind of already worships me, she attracts WAY better photographers than Kimberly did. And, she's going through a totally rough time right now because she's getting a divorce, so she wants to party and dress up and stuff and get really dirty and freaky, which is my FAVORITE THING EVER to do. Like, this one time, I put on my favorite red party dress of that week, and she got out this old thing she used to wear when she and her husband played that weird Ice Dancing game where they were at the porn Olympics, and we decided to go out and party. And it was, like, TOTAL sisterhood, you know? And it was SO SWEET because we were really cold, and she remembered that her ex-husband had a bunch of old pieces of panty-hose in his drawer from the olden days when he would stick his head in them and then throw over a 7-11 (she used that word -- "throw over" -- I don't really know what that word means but it is so Law & Order I can't even STAND IT and I think I'm so good now at saying the word that I should probably order up a part on one of the episodes, right? Do you think they deliver?). But anyway, so we had these pieces of panty-hose but there were only two, so we each wore one -- me on my right leg, and her on her left leg, which I swore was her right leg, but she kept telling me it was her left and that she would know what her own left leg looks like since she was BORN with it, DUH, and you know what? I don't know what her left leg looks like, and maybe it looks like it's on the right -- there ARE people who are born that way, I'm pretty sure, and if she's one of them, then maybe we should start some sort of charitable manicure program that benefits the Righty Left Children or whatever. It's a good idea.
Anyway, it was soooo fun -- she's like the sister I never had! Sometimes we sit up all night and drink vodka from baby bottles and talk about boys and divorces and our music careers -- apparently, she had some albums and shit, but I don't REMEMBER Pamela Anderson having a record or anything, do you? But she got all mad and screamed that she did too have more hit songs than I did, and she didn't seem to like it when I called her out and said I'd never heard of any of her songs and that she would need to PROVE it. In fact, she ALSO didn't really like it that much when I called her Pamela, but dude, I KNOW Pamela Anderson when I see her -- like, those things are KIND OF hard to MISS, you know? They're bigger than Nicky's head! So anyway I told Pamela to shut up and finish her Zima and she kind of got upset again but then once she was done chugging it and then shotgunning her Bud Light (she said her mom calls it a Trailer Martini -- how kicky and retro! Also, does Pamela Anderson HAVE a mom? Wicked!) and then everything was fine again.
Can't wait to see sister Pammy tomorrow! We're gonna get tattoos that say P&P Music Factory (even if she IS lying about having all those albums) and it's going to RULE. I talked her into it after the third bottle of Jagermeister. She said it would be even better because Kevin would hate it ("Kevin" is how you say "Kid Rock" in Michigan speak -- they are so funny up there!). Whee! Paris and Pammy!
November 07, 2006
Letter of Fug: Part WHOO HOOOO
I TOLD Y'ALL I WAS GONNA DO IT.
To Kevin: HA HA. I was just waiting until I started to get hot again to file the papers. Check out my cute, post-baby body. HOW DO YOU LIKE THIS? Yeah! That's what I'm TALKING ABOUT. It's a CLASSY dress on a HOT BODY and I still have LIKE A LOT MORE DOLLARS THAN YOU DO. So you can SUCK IT. When I told you the other night that I was bringing sexy back, I was NOT kidding, even if you did laugh. Who's laughing now?! (I am.)
I hope you enjoy the case of Pabst I gave you to celebrate your stupid "album" dropping, because that is the LAST THING you are going to get from me EVER. I hope your cornrows all fall out and you trip on your manpris and you break your face and you crash your car.
To Cameron Diaz: Watch yourself.
To the rest of world: YOU'RE WELCOME.
October 11, 2006
Letter of Truth: Part BOO-YEAH
What is UP? Hey HEY! Yeah, I'm just standing here, doing The Sprinkler in front of Westfield Shopping Town. TESTIFY!
So, yeah, we haven't talked lately and you know, Britney is always saying I'm like a bad communicator and shit but the truth is, yo, I have got my HANDS FULL. First of all, my acting career is off the HOOK. Check it out: I'm on CSI this week and listen, I fucking rock the house on that show. I'm pretty sure they're going to ask me to have my own CSI. CSI: YOUR ASS. And I'll go all over America investigating HOT ASSES. Yeah, that's what I'm talking about. Holla!
But seriously, I'm pretty sure I'm gonna get my own show now, and then who'll be the breadwinner, baby? That's right: yo soy la breadwinner, bitches. And that'll be the end of "No, you can't buy a Slurpee machine," and "Who's the person in this relationship who HAS a Grammy?" and "please hold the baby."
So yeah, I've got this whole acting thing happening and I also am doing a lot of shopping, obviously, and I'm been really busy not tying my shoes and buying pants that make me look really stumpy, because MAN does that piss B off, and she's really funny when she's pissed off, because then she starts yelling and sometimes her gum falls on the floor. Let's see, what else have I been up to? I feel like there's something else. DAMN. My short term memory is for shit now, dude.
Damn, I am just fooling wit' you. I remember what else is going on in my life: MY CD. Yeah, I know everyone thought my single sucked monkey balls (to quote my wife, like, THANKS FOR BEING SO SUPPORTIVE. Damn. You sang a song about your damn diary once. Jesus.), but that's because it's a concept album, dogs. You just haven't heard THE WHOLE THING. It makes that Timberlake punk look like Lance Bass. YEAH, I SAID IT. TIMBERLAKE'S A GAY! Heh. I said that to Britney once and she punched me in the ear. She so easy.
Oh, yeah, and we had another baby. I ALMOST talked B into naming him Sean P2, but she ain't that simple. I also wanted to name him Snoop D -- like, Sean P is after P Diddy, so why not give some love to the D O Double G? And she said no.
She's so boring, dudes. My next wife is going to be Paris Hilton. You know she would totally let me smoke out at home.
And now she's yelling at me again. Something about me emptying our 401k? No way she could have found out about that shit already. I better go on damage control. Which means, turn up the Vandross...it's time for Baby Number Three.
PEACE OUT, BITCHES