Dear Britney Spears,
Today I saw your pussy, and since it's not every day that a celebrity flashes her pootang (more like every other day!) I figured you and I should have a talk.
Or shall I say, I'll be doing the talking and I'll just pretend that you're going to be doing the listening.
I often ask myself: "Does Britney not have any fucking people around her to tell her when she's acting a fuckin fool?"
Because Britney, you are acting like a fucking fool!
It's just not enough that you're acting like a fool but now you have to associate with one!
Paris Hilton is not your friend. I repeat, Paris Hilton is not your friend.
Lather, rinse, repeat. That isn't my clever way of being repetitive, it's just a hint that I want you to take a shower.
I also want you to stop hangin around Paris' bony ass.
Girl, of all the people who should be guiding you through life, Paris Hilton should not be one of them.
Paris Hilton is #2 on the long list of the most worthless people on this planet, your future ex husband happens to be #1.
I'd also like to add that this will be the first and last time KFed will ever find himself topping any list as numero uno.
These are the people that you choose to have in your life! What the fuck does that say about you?
Why do you insist on surrounding yourself with people who do nothing but eat your fucking spirit?
Why do you work so hard at being the second coming of Whitney Houston?
Oh, shut up, we know you're on drugs. Atleast this is what I keep telling myself.
Do you know how shitty your life has to be when people hope you're on drugs?
I only hope you are on drugs for the same reason everyone wants Mel Gibson to be an alcoholic or Kramer a psycho, because we want to believe that all the shitty mistakes you celebs make aren't the result of stone cold sobriety and sanity.
While we're on the subject of drunk drivers and insanity, no sane and/or sober person I know would dare get into a car with Paris Hilton.
Personally, I would rather sit in a cum-stained LA Yellow cab, filled with hiv+ blood stained hyperdermic needles, used condoms, and empty crack vials than to ride in Paris motherfucking Hilton's dui-mobile!
I would not set foot in that bitch's car, let alone my barebottomed ass Britney!
Don't you know that Paris' car is just filled with infested parasites?
And when I say infested parasites, I hope you know I'm talking about Lindsey Lohan.
What the fuck are you thinking not wearing panties? You could catch crabs, Britney! From somebody other than your husband this time! Is that what you want? Do you want crabs to jump in your coochie? And when I say crabs, I mean pubic lice, and when I say pubic lice I really mean Brandon Davis.
Scott-Scorch-only-knows what kind of shit one could catch just by being in her ride. Like I'm gonna risk catching syphillis, bird flu, scabies, STD's and the RLS. Oh you know the RLS right? The restless leg syndrome with the creepy crawlies and the constant urge to need to move your legs. Or, in your case, spread eagle. Oh, don't front like you ain't seen that commercial! Ask KFed, his ass sits around and watches tv all day he'll tell you.
Now I don't know if you're doing this shit because of the drugs or simply because you're batshit crazy or prone to bad influence, (all of the above!) but one thing is for sure, you flashed your pussy on purpose. I won't even bother entertaining the idea that this was an accident. Your children, however cute and neglected they may be are accidents. (I hope to God they are, because I hate to think that you actually made a choice to allow that waste of skin to sire your children.) You, on the other hand are a fucking trainwreck.
Shit, It looks like you and Paris hot boxed some hydro and she double-dog-double-dared you to show the world your cooter. Is that it? Were you and Paris playing truth or dare, Britney?
Damn, If you're gonna show your pussy to the world, can you make an effort in someway to make it look something other than a fucking honeybaked ham with stubble on it.
Oh, my bad. My apologies to anyone who will be eating a honeybanked ham for the holidays and will now associate that sweet crackling glazed meat with Britney Spear's coochie.
Damn, don't you think you could have done a better job shaving your pussy?
It's called Gilette Fusion, invest!
That razor will have your pussy lips talking to you like, "Bitch, that razor jacked all my hair!"
I'm talking about a close shave, not this stubble and five o'clock shadow on your pussy.
Girl you ARE britney spears, bitch. Get your pussy right!
If you aren't going to do it, hire somebody! You're rich as fuck. You have no excuse.
Get somebody to take a pair of tweezerman's to your snatch and have them pluck every single bit of stubble!
Just promise me that afterwards they take those tweezerman's to your eyebrows too, because your brows are bushier than your bush!
This could be somebody's career ok?
Give the job to Paris! We all know this bitch needs to get herself a job!
Oh wait! She can't remember? Because I told your ass to stop fuckin around with her!
Britney's personal pussy plucker, now accepting applications!
Just hire whichever one sends me death threats via my comments section for speaking ill of you.
But fuck it, I'll speak ill of anyone who needs it, the only difference is I will do it to their face.
Or in your case, to your pussy. Because Britney, your pussy is a nightmare.Your shit was a disaster upon epic proportions.
I've seen trannies with their post op sex-reassignment surgeries that have better lookin pussies and those pussies used to be penises.
But you know, I have to be real with you because the truth is, I'm not even all that mad that you showed your pussy and I really wasn't surprised.
Because really, it's your pussy, show it to whoever the fuck you want, that's your business.
I really only had two issues with what you did and one of them was the conditions in which you showed it.
I mean, damn! If you already knew you were going to show your pussy, couldn't you have worn something cuter?
Like this shirt:
Ha! How freaking funny would it have been if you showed your pussy while wearing that shirt with no panties on? We all know how much you love to wear the same shit over and over again.
You couldn't have done that this time? Yeah, a shirt you will wear over and over, but some shoes or panties, and you just can't be bothered with them.
Regarding PussyGate, the second thing I had a problem with is not why you showed your pussy, but why you showed it for free! I hear you talkin all the time about how the paparazzi fucks up your life up and here you are letting them put their nikon in your crotch! If I thought somebody is ruining my life, the last thing I would do is invite their camera into my uterus so they could profit off it.
Did you even make one fuckin dollar from showing the planet your pussy?
I doubt it and this is why I think you totally suck at life.
You really have no idea how to be rich or fucking famous so let me teach you how okay?
If I was rich and famous, and I have dudes taking pictures of me all day, every day, at every unflattering angle imaginable you know what I would do?
I would wear panties! Yes, I would!
I would come correct and I would not leave my house unless my ass was covered in a pair of clean, overpriced panties.
And if for some reason, my panties should become visible to the paparazzi, you better believe that stitched on those panties will be the date my album drops or my movie comes out in the theater ala Macy Gray.
Because nobody will exploit me except me, motherfucker. For every penny somebody was making off my pussy, you better believe I'd be making a hundred dollars.
That lesson right there will keep you both rich and famous, honey.
And IF and that's a great big old IF for some reason (Like I didn't get enough attention as a kid or I got too much "attention" from some dirty perv uncle) I just had to show the world where my babies come from, I'd do it on my own terms.
I'd have Vanity fair and Hugh Hefner fighting over my pussy pics like it was the last piece of fried chicken.
Then I'd request that my pussy could only be photographed by either Annie Leibovitz or David LaChappelle because they make fucking art.
If I'm gonna show the world my pussy, I'd sprinkle some glitter or fairy dust on it, and I'd make my pussy look like the prettiest looking pussy in all the land. Not that my pussy needs glitter or fairy dust, as it already is the prettiest pussy in all the land. I would have my pussy lookin so perfect that everyone looking at it would have to wear those sunglasses you have to wear during solar eclipses.
My pussy is so magical that Tinkerbell flies out of my pussy and grant wishes.
That is how much my pussy sparkles.
Britney, if you had my pussy and I had yours, I would take it to Tiffany's and they would offer me millions of dollars to replicate it in diamonds and platinum and they would sell little pussy pendants. Little clitorises covered in carats.
If I were you, I could make that happen. I'd put my name on it and you better believe I'd get tons of money. Then I'd call up Victoria's Secret and I'd tell them I want to design a line of panties for them.
Then I'd get tons of money off that too.
You should listen to me, Britney. Girl, I help people build empires, it's like my job. You could rebuild your empire with your pussy.
Think of the possibilities in what I'm suggesting here. Do you see how your pussy can work for you?
And if I were you, the last thing that I would do to make money off my pussy would have to be create a perfume.
Yes, I know! A new perfume by Britney Spears!
You should create this new fragrance based on your pussy.
Britney Spears introduces her new perfume, Bare Eau De Twat by Britney.
I can picture it now. It will look just like the Curious bottle only this bottle will be covered in swarovski crystals, stubble, and a nice red c-section scar. The fragrance will have subtle notes of vaginal discharge, musk, cheetos, badussy, and hot leather car seat.
All the girls and gays will be flocking to Macy's to buy it. Even straight guys, because who doesn't want to know what Britney Spear's pussy smells like, right?
I can't even imagine living in a world where people think that you are so fucking dope that they would want to wear your pussy smell behind their ears. Just in case anyone is wondering, my perfume would smell like vanilla cupcakes, bubblegum, and sugarplum dreams.
But shit, I can't even imagine what it would be like to have somebody love me so much that they want to be smellin my pussy all the time.
Oh, wait I totally take that back because I do! I know for a fact my husband Jake loves me like that.
Just think about it Britney! People will walk around smelling like your pussy, and not the old fashion way where you gotta fuck em and shit! Oh no! This way you don't even gotta leave the house!
So after you've done the magazines, jewelry, lingerie, and fragrance line and when you're all done exploiting your girl parts for every cent they are worth, do you know what I think you should do with the money?
No, you don't blow it all on blow and snort your pussy payments up your nose or waste it on the next broke ass future baby daddy. Oh, that reminds me, let's set aside a big chunk for your children's therapy and a fashion team for you pronto!
Here's what we're gonna do! We're gonna donate the money! Millions of it!
Oprah will be all bitter about you donating more money than her. She'll be like, "Look at this bitch..."
You know how she had the angel network? Well, you're gonna have the Britney Spears Pussy Foundation.
All the money that you made from showing off your cooch will be donated to various charities around the world to benefit the less fortunate.
Just think of the people your pussy will be helping! The ones who haven't been on TRL, I mean!
Like the children who have been left behind and abandoned by their parents because of death and disease, and not because of Paris Hilton.
Think of the women who are so poor that something that you take for granted, like underwear would be a luxury to them. If I was Britney Spears, I would totally use the powers of my pussy for good and not evil.
If I were you, and I exploited myself, I'd use the money I made from it for the greater good of mankind.
My pussy would provide running water and shelter.
Because of my pussy, people will have something to eat. And right now, only my husband can say that!
My pussy will be on the cover of Time magazine.
My pussy will win a nobel piece prize.
My pussy will become a goodwill ambassador.
Angelina Jolie and my pussy will travel to third world countries and adopt orphans.
My pussy will stop the war in Iraq, in fact it would diminish terrorism altogether.
George Bush will know that my pussy is the real weapon of mass destruction.
Do you see how powerful my pussy is? That's why I wear underwear, because if I didn't contain it, my pussy would be trying to save the universe.
Because I have no doubt in my mind that my pussy is capable of great things, Britney.
So why can't your pussy be capable of more than being ugly, housing children you neglect, and pleasuring wanna be rappers?
I just hate to say it, but on my list of worthless people, you've just become #3.
In the beginning of this letter, I posed a question and in the interim of writing this, I realized I have the answer. I asked you "Does Britney not have any fucking people around her to tell her when she's acting a fuckin fool?"
The truth isn't that you don't have people in your life to tell you when you are acting a fool, because you just have to, everyone in this world regardless of how small and insignificant they may think they are, has atleast one person who will tell them about themselves.
What I realized about you is that you have that and you just don't care.
Regardless of what anyone tells you about your choices, at the end of the day you are going to do what you want, and it will most certainly continue you into this downward spiral.
Like Maya Angelou says, "God whispers first." And when God whispered in your ear, "Don't show everybody your pussy" All you heard was, "Show everybody your pussy."
You used to be America's pop princess, and then you cheated on Justin Timberlake and cuckolded a pregnant woman's backup dancin' baby daddy and karma put her stiletto right in your asshole.
I don't care what anyone else says, I really don't think that you are going to rise above this.
It's not a question of if you will crash and burn, it's going to be when you crash and burn.
Believe me when I say that we will all wait with baited breath, refreshing our browsers over and over at OhNoTheyDidnt.
The truth is, I hope to all hell that I am wrong, eventhough I'm pretty sure I'm not.
You may be a has-been and a hot ass mess but do you know what else you are?
You're somebody's mama, bitch. So please start fuckin' acting like it.
So now that I've gotten this off my delicious chest, I just know I"m gonna sleep like a baby tonight.
Not your babies, mind you, they're both wide awake right now wondering where the fuck you are.
So quit fuckin with Paris and go home to them.
And for the love of Justin Timberlake, please cover up the carnage that is your vagina.
Nobody needs to see your popozao!
Love,
Jane
On Monday, my husband and I are flying to San Francisco for a business conference.
Our company is sending us to the Bay Area for five fun-filled days of sex in a luxurious hotel suite, fine dining, and all the shopping that San Francisco can offer! All of this and not a penny out of my Seven Jeans pocket. The opposite actually, seeing how this is still considered work and I'm getting a pay check for it. As if fucking my husband and sipping on champagne can actually be considered work.
So why the hell did I almost back out of going on this trip? Well I will tell you why!
My assistant emailed me our itinerary and when I read it, I realized that we were scheduled to leave on Monday, September 11th. Of all days to be on a motherfuckin' airplane! What asshole would want to fly on 9/11 anyways? Say, I'm sitting in 1st class enjoying my bag of honey roasted peanuts and a terrorist comes and blows up the plane? Can I really be all that surprised? I mean, it is 9/11 for Hannah Montana's sake. Could there be a bigger I-told-you-so? Umm, no.
I *usurped whatever pull I had over this situation and I made the decision that we weren't going to go. Yeah I said it! WE weren't going. If I'm not going, he ain't going either. **I can say that you see, because not only am I his wife, I am also his business consultant.I get paid to make decisions which will benefit my husband, and believe me, he ALWAYS benefits when he does what I say. It's not because I'm bossy, I just happened to be the one who told young stunna to switch to Bape.
So I sent him an email saying that we weren't going and he comes into my office wondering why I no longer wanted to take the trip. I know I should have been able to articulate to him how I felt about terrorists and irony, except when Jake asked me why I didn't want to go anymore, the only thing that came out of my mouth was:
"BECAUSE THERE ARE MOTHERFUCKING SNAKES ON THE MOTHERFUCKING PLANE!"
After he stopped laughing his ass off, he actually said, "Good! They deserved to FLY and I hope they burn in hell!"
Le sigh. Oh, do I heart the witty Samuel Jacksonesque banter which exists between the Mr. and I.
My nonsensical explanation suited him just fine because he said that if I didn't want us to go, then we wouldn't go.
Except, now that he put it in his mind that we weren't going to go, I decided I now wanted to go again!
I know, I know. My only excuse is that I have a vagina, so therefore my indecisive behavior is understandable.
So why did I change my mind? Did I have
buyer's flyer's remorse? Was I swayed by the free trip or
the shopping or all the gays I know in Frisco, and the ones I am sure to meet?
No, it was Jake who ultimately changed my mind. I was so touched by the fact that he would turn down a semi-vacation for me without hesitation that I wanted to return the favor. I would follow that man to Hell if he ever asked me to, so I should be able to follow him to Frisco right? Besides, Hell doesn't have all the nifty shops like in Union Square... atleast I don't think it does.
All I know is that when I die, I want to be holding the hand of the man I love, whether it's on my 100th birthday or when we're nose-diving into the Pentagon. The couple who flies together dies together.
So if you don't see me on AIM and I don't post on Friday, it's probably but because Osama got my ass.
Anyways, the REAL upside to all of this is that we have added to our daily repertoire of inside jokes that don't make a damn bit of sense to anyone except us. Every answer to every question has now become, "Motherfucking snakes on the motherfucking plane!"
Nobody understands it, but suddenly everyone around us who have heard us say it are starting to say it too!
Question: "Where are my car keys?"
Answer: "On the motherfucking plane with the motherfucking snakes!"
Question: "Why can't you ever put the toilet seat down? I'm sick of falling in the toilet!"
Answer: "Well I'm sick of all these motherfucking snakes on this motherfucking plane!"
Question: "Go fuck yourself!"
Answer: "I would if it weren't for all these motherfucking snakes on the motherfucking plane!"
It really doesn't make a damn bit of sense, believe me I know. But somehow It truly feels like it could be the answer to all life's questions.
So just must imagine the disappointment I felt when I had ONE, count it ONE! opportunity to actually say this phrase in which God and Samuel Jackson had truly intended only I didn't!
That very night, over dinner and drinks at The House Of Blues, we discussed what we might do afterwards when the idea of watching the movie "Snakes On A Plane" came up.
That's when my bubbleheaded sister-in-law actually blurts out in all motherfucking seriousness, "Snakes on a Plane? What's that movie about?"
Yeah it was like that.
I wanted to say, "It's about motherfucking snakes on a motherfucking plane!"
Duh Dumb-Dumb! Just like how the movie, ***"The Boy Who Could Fly" is about a boy who could fly!"
My sister-in-law is truly an Overheard In Cali moment in the making.
We all just looked at each other in amazement like, "Did this bitch really just ask that?" I really wouldn't have been more dumbfounded had she squatted on the table and took a steamy shit right on top of the creme brule and bananas foster. So I said nothing, simply because anything that came out of my mouth would have made her feel even more stupid. Not that she needed my assistance in doing so, but whatever.