Friday, May 19, 2006

Hillbillies Makes the Best Parents

I tend to not comment a lot on celebrities and the assorted ways in which they make their own lives miserable by being woefully negligent of their children and/or by doing enough drugs to induce a psychotic break that lands them either in a hospital ER or the waiting room of the local Scientology encampment. Not really my bag, as it were. But I feel that I'd be remiss if I didn't weigh in on this whole "Britney Spears is trying to kill her baby" brouha that's been at a steady boil these last few days.

Okay... here's the deal... Britney Spears is deeply, deeply trashy. We know this. Were it not for the fact that she has a good (well, marketable) singing voice, she'd be pulling double shifts at the local Razoo's, hoping she gets good tips Friday night 'cause the babies need formula and, like, it's way expensive. Any illusion of class that she might have fostered in her career (could've happened) was shot all to hell back when her and that retarded hip-hop ape she's married to unleashed their TV show "Chaotic." What was, I assume, inteded to be sweet and loving ended up being extremely uncomfortable and gross, like watching an all-orgy episode of Hee Haw, and it proved irrevocably that Spears would sell pictures of herself taking a dump if she could get a high enough paycheck for it. Anyway, my point is that being as how she's the particular kind of white trash that has, somehow, stumbled upon an ungodly amount of money, she is automaticly predisposed to be a crappy mother.

Bad genes, an unlimited supply of money for which to buy bottle after bottle of Strawberry Boone's Farm and Kool cigarettes, and a husband that's more concerned with achieving maximum levels of greasiness while releasing a rap single so noxious it actually melts stereos is the perfect reciepe for disaster, child rearing-wise, and the fact that we're shocked now that the shit's going down is just silly.

Of course she's going to let her baby drive the car. The kid's going to fall out of the high chair eventually. She's going to drop him in front of photographers, without a doubt. You can take the girl out of the trailer park, but you can't take the trailer park out of the girl and even though the diapers are Gucci and the baby powder is imported from France, she's still going to let him roll off the changing table while she applies another layer of Maybellene to that fresh shiner and dances in her Hanes Her Ways to her "jam" on the Top 40 station. It's written in the stars.

So, I propose that we, as a nation, just sit back and enjoy it. The fact is, the kid, with the mix of DNA he posseses, is better off being killed by parental stupidity now then having to grow up knowing that his mother's a psychotic cow, his dad's an oily, wiggling douchebag and, someday, he's going to be THAT too.

Let's just watch the train crash, take to heart the life lessons, and throw heaping handfulls of praise upwards to whatever particular deity you happen to align yourself with, thanking them that you're not Britney Spears or Kevin Federline, otherwise known as the tabloid industry's embarresment of riches.

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