Britney Spears walked into a pole on New Year’s Eve. That explains the bruise on her head, but not why she looks like a Polish cleaning lady who had superior healthcare before perestroika. Have you noticed how the best selfies aren’t taken under hospital examination room lights? Spears pointed out the completely believable cause of the injury on social media before rumors began swirling about how she really got that forehead shiner. You’re hiding something, Spears. Say his name in pig Latin like you did when you were little. God I hope that’s a turtleneck.
Britney Spears has been touting her lean stomach on social media, which means her custodial supervisors will be pushing for bigger splits with the casinos. The alternative to ab pics are cuts where she sings Adele. You need that about as much as you need Adele showing off in a Deion Sanders mesh jersey. Skinny makes Spears the perfect entertainer. She’s already got crazy and lip-synching and tits. It’s the four quadrants. When Britney’s happy, her gay entourage is happy. When the gay entourage is happy, somebody remembers to feed her children. More crunches. The Federline babies want lunch.
The screaming pumpkin heads who drop big cash to see Britney Spears in Vegas don’t care that she’s just miming over pre-recorded tracks. The performance is really the moving story of how gay aliens come to earth and try to rob Britney Spears chubby vagina powers for themselves. Yes, there’s war brewing on Uranus. In her weekend show, Spears’ costume ripped open in the back. She carried on without missing a lip-synched beat as her slender drones desperately Googled how to work a zipper on a woman’s dress. Britney’s outfit was mended before the big number where she belts out a perfect Toxic while consuming a 7-Eleven microwaved bean and cheese burrito in a La-Z-Boy recliner on stage. Custodial parent’s bills don’t pay themselves.
Britney Spears spent six months on hiatus from her Vegas show to work out, make smart nutrition a part of her lifestyle, and attend her boys’ soccer games without a bra to remind the neighbors she once filled the Tokyo Dome. She still looks thick. Maybe it’s the settling effect. Or the costumes. Something isn’t working. It’s possible that Mississippi just sticks something voodoo fierce. She could be absorbing fat through a subterranean network of tubes acting much like a virtual grease trap. Or it’s the Cool Whip. Some things you can’t dance away. Leave dad his thirty percent at the door. Nobody gets skinny in the asylum.
Nobody knows what the Teen Choice Awards are. Nobody cared after Britney Spears showed up and squatted like a Russian grandma taking an alley dump in 1911. You’d have to be a qualified doctor to name all the parts Britney was displaying in her pop-up gynecological diorama. She was subsequently awarded six trophies for being a sex positive role model for girls and smartly distancing herself from Iggy Azalea musically. There’s a reason we don’t let teens decide shit in this society. Sour Patch kids are giving you diabetes. Check out Britney’s snatch, kids. Life never gets better.
If there is an actual race to the bottom for inanely worded computer generated pop songs, it’s time to hand out the award. Pop music for teen girls never required musically gifted performers. But they had to provide vocals. If that last connection to song production is no longer part of the process, then you can literally plug in anybody. Why the freaky looking albino? You’ve just savaged my Britney Spears fap with that Poltergeist possessed dancing mannequin. Somewhere the parents of Bananarama are crying for having wasted money on singing lessons.