You know, I had a lapse in judgment a couple weeks ago, and felt sorry for Britney Spears. The image of her breaking down on camera opposite Matt Lauer, sobbing the words, "I wish they'd just leave me alone," the tears ruining her meticulously overdone eyeshadow -- it was enough to make me a bit sympathetic, understanding that the paparazzi are utter jackals.
But now, Britney Spears has posed for the cover of Harper's Bazaar, buck naked and six-months preggo. And in response, my abject disgust has crept up my esophagus like acid reflux, yet again. I can't help it; it is an entirely auto-immune response to the shovels-full of bullshit she keeps stuffing down my throat.
Does anybody really care about this broad anymore? Sure she was arguably attractive at the age of 17-18, but that was before we saw pictures of her without five pounds of foundation, lipstick, and botox. Here's the way the shit works. If you gladly give the paparazzi what they want, sell your soul for a record deal, lesbian fake-kiss Madonna, and cheapen your body for a glossy photo-spread, you don't get to complain on national TV about how many photographers follow you around looking for money shots.
That's like slathering wet manure on your neck and then complaining about all the flies.
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