Eight years ago, if I would have told you that one day Britney Spears would be pulled out of her own house strapped to a gurney like a common meth-head, you would have called me crazy. You probably also would have asked why I had a huge poster of her over my bed. My reply would have something along the lines of, “Shut up! You don’t know her the way I do! I hate you, Dad!”
Apparently, last night she lost custody of her two boys to Kevin Federline, our generation’s Kato Kaelin. You know, “right place/right time” celebrities. A “hostage” situation ensued, ending three hours later with America’s Sweetheart being wheeled out of her house screaming maniacally in a sweaty trance.
When I think of the past year of Brit-Brit’s life, I wish I could take back all those nights I wasted on her. Now when I see pictures of her, it reminds me of seeing the former prom queen of your high school down the diaper aisle at Wal-Mart, surrounded by four kids covered in chocolate and snot. Then you realize that maybe living with Mom ain’t so bad after all.
A nation weeps… — Craig Hlavaty
This article appears in Jan 3-9, 2008.
