Britney Spears

Rolling Stone’s cover story next month is of Britney Spears. Not a sexy cover story of Britney seductively posing for her comeback, but a more reality based story about Britney’s downward spiral into craziness. The story is titled Inside An American Tragedy and features awesomeness such as this.

A wail emerges from the cubby – guttural, vile, the kind of base animalistic shriek only heard at a family member’s deathbed. “Fuck these bitches,” screams Britney, each word ringing out between sobs. “These idiots can’t do anything right!”

Ghalib dashes over to console her, but she’s already spitting, growling, throwing a big bottle of soda on the floor so that it begins to spill underneath the curtain, and then she’s got a box of tissues and is throwing them on top of the wet floor along with piles of discarded merchandise. A new card finally goes through, but by then Britney is out the door, leaving her shirt on the ground and replacing it with the red top. “Fuck you, fuck people, fuck, fuck, fuck,” she keeps screaming, her face splotchy and red as she crosses the interminable mall floor, the crowd behind her growing larger and larger. “Leave us alone!” yells Ghalib.

That settles it. Everyone in America thinks Britney is a lumbering monster no longer capable of forming a complex sentence. Her only means of communication being accomplished through “animalistic” grunts and shrieks. Unless she’s in line at Starbucks. That’s a whole different story. She’s like Shakespeare with the menu; pulling the most magnificent quatrains out of her ass just to order a Frappuccino.