Brit's Bits

I wrote this a few years ago after the whole Britney Spears Furburger fiasco.  It was originally posted as a Myspace blog.  How 2006.  Enjoy.

Well, after several years of waiting and countless hours spent scouring the internet in search of a most elusive prize, it’s finally become a reality; naked pictures of Britney Spears.  Oh sweet relief.

I’ve long been an aficionado of celebrity nudity and take great pride in my ability to tell you just where and when to see any given actress disrobe on film.  The proliferation of celebutante worship and the media circus which follows has upped the ante in the last five years, documenting nipple-slips and fur flashes for all to see where before they existed for a brief, but beautiful moment and then were gone.  So in addition to staying up late watching B-Movies from early in Courtney Cox’s career, hoping to see some salami (score!), I have to devote time to mulling through page upon page of celebrity news, looking for pictures of errant areola.  I can’t say I don’t enjoy this little past time of mine, but wading through the mountains of fake/doctored pictures can be tiresome to say the least.  However, in doing so I’ve become quite the sleuth and 99% of the time can tell, on first glance, if something has been photo-shopped.  We all know Demi Moore hasn’t done any hard-core gangbang films, so the pictures of her, spread eagle, surrounded by a basketball team that’s just collectively achieved on her face aren’t fooling anyone, but they’re good for a laugh.  Other pics are more deceptive.  A nipple cropped on the ridge of a low cut dress can look surprisingly real –especially when you really want it to be- until you notice it’s about 3 inches off the mark and not quite facing the right way.  A jeweler’s monocle comes in handy here. Point is, once you know what is fake and what is real, it then breaks down into 2 categories; who you have seen and who you haven’t.

Paris Hilton and Pamela Anderson for example are worth looking at, but not at all hard to find.  Britney, on the other hand, has managed to keep her cooter covered for the duration of her time in the spotlight.  There are lots of fakes and some questionable calls, but nothing definitive.  Nothing that warrants me crossing her name off the mental check list I keep.  It might have been just plain dumb luck that with all the public appearances and performances in such skimpy clothing she hasn’t had an incident prior to this, but her luck has ran out.  Look in any search engine and there it is.  The cat is way out of the bag.  A beef curtain buffet for everyone to see.  She skipped the nipple-slip and went straight downtown.  The Golden Goose of celebrity private parts.  And nobody, save perhaps K-Fed, is more pleased than me.  Top of the world, ma!  Top of the world!

Having removed that perverse little monkey from my back, I’d like to go ahead and say how sad the state of Spears is these days.  Now, if you’ve seen the pictures you know as well as I do just how unremarkable her nether regions are.  Her crotch was not gilded, nor diamond crusted.  It didn’t look like the face of God, like millions might have imagined.  It was, quite simply, another vagina.  Just the same, I stared transfixed for quite some time before I found myself wondering if it had always looked this way.  Surely the flower Justin Timberlake first plucked must’ve been something to behold.  Remember Britney 5 years ago?   Body that could make a gay Catholic priest beg for more.  Better cans than Coke.  More booty than in Black beard’s treasure chest. Now we’re faced with her battered bitty, wondering what could have been if only she’d have let us have a look back then.  Good grief, Brit, where did it all go?  I’ll hazard a guess and say this; when you marry a talentless, wigger, back-up dancer and let him relentlessly jackhammer away on you between bong rips, futile attempts to find a word that rhymes with orange and trips to the Ferrari dealer and even go so far as to shit out two of his devil spawn (that other people will end up raising), well, something has got to give.  In this case, it was her vagina’s elasticity.  It’s also noteworthy to point out this didn’t happen until she started being seen with Paris Hilton on a daily basis, stumbling from party to party like a drunken floozy, thus proving Britney is the ignorant, gullible and easily manipulated bumpkin we’ve always taken her for and that Paris is a giant cancerous tumor, slowly killing everything in her path.

What’s done is done, I suppose.  Thanks to the magic of digital photography, the internet and our insatiable need to know about the lives of the rich and famous, images of your favorite celebrities celebrated areas can be broadcast the world over just hours after a wardrobe mishap.  For better or worse, they’re up for all to see and in my case, keep a running tally of.  But just like anything else in life, when at long last you come face to face with something you’ve been dreaming of, the odds of that dream meeting the expectations you’ve foisted upon it are slim.  Truth is, Britney Spears has a vagina just like millions of other women.  On seeing said vagina, it doesn’t vaporize you like the contents of the arc of the covenant.  It doesn’t hold the answers to any questions you long to have answered, but it might hold a small handful of communicable diseases.  We’ve watched as the rest of her slid headlong into oblivion, but hoped that one small part might remain in tact and had no reason -or at least no proof- to believe it wouldn’t.  But fire up a Google search and there it is, gloriously un-glorious, just another fucking vagina.  Just like some things are better off unsaid, I guess the same is true of what we see.