Britney Spears

Hi, y'all! I'm Britney Spears!

Y'all, Kevin and I went to the pet story to get Laci a little jacket because it's so cold out and I heard that this pet store in Malibu sold little "Rock Out With Your Cock Out" hats for dogs and I thought that might be cute too, you know, because that would match my fine hubby's hat and it's so cute when doggies match their daddies but when we got there there was just so much to choose from I just couldn't decide! I was so confused that all my hair just stood right up on top of my head, y'all!

What was I talking about again? Oh right. Y'all keep talking about how I look crummy when I leave the house but that is totally unfair y'all. Y'all, I am in love. I am married now! I am a married lady! This is how I look, for reals, y'all. I don't have to brush my hair for Kevin. I don't even have to take a shower for Kevin! He told me that I have to do is keep signing the checks...of LOVE. Y'all it is such a relief to not have to shower or brush my hair or wear make-up or make any kind of effort of any kind at all anymore. I am just so comfortable with Kevin and the baby we are making together, currently located in my uterus, which is also unwashed. Oops, did I say that? I guess I did it again. I just can't keep it secret! I can't wait to shop for clothing for little Kevney or Britven, y'all. Y'all, I would actually really like to have twins like Julia Roberts and name them Kevney Cheetos Federline and Britven Red Bull Federline and then Kevney Cheetos and Britven Red Bull and Kevvie and me and maybe my mom Lynne and maybe also my sister Jamie Lynn even though she hasn't called me back in like three weeks can all just live together here in my big house in Malibu with our dogs and also maybe with some of those kids Kevin has with that other lady and we can just sit around and watch movies and I can make a roast and my mother will wash our cars for us because she likes to do that and then I will never have to brush my hair again and no one will care because I will be a married lady with babies and that means I am a GROWN-UP and no one will make me dance with a snake ever ever again.

Except maybe for Justin. I might dance with a snake maybe if Justin asked but DON'T TELL ANYONE I SAID THAT.

LOVE,

BRITNEY!

This photo was sent by an eagle-eyed reader:

Why is Britney shrieking?

a) She's looking in a mirror
b) Something, somewhere, is itching and burning
c) She found the greatest onesie for her future spawn that has "I'm Jailbait (But This Is An Old Jumper)" emblazoned on it.
d) She just caught sight of the wedding ring on her finger and has awoken to what she and her life have jointly become
e) She is realizing that she passed a dumpster on the way into the store without even stopping to dive in and see if anybody threw out any snacks, or perfectly good unbroken condoms that can be re-rolled for reuse.
f) Wouldn't you be, if you were Britney?

Britney's got a new single coming out, the cover of Bobby Brown's "My Prerogative" that's attached to her Greatest Hits album -- the premature appearance of which suggests that nobody really believes wholeheartedly that she'll have a "great" hit ever again, so they might as well strike while the Frito Pie is still hot.

As such, it's nice to see Britney already thinking ahead about her future, and turning to alternate sources of income -- specifically, what one can only assume is preparation for a gig as a Clearasil spokeswoman:

It's like she rubbed her chin in Crisco, which might well be close to the truth if she was anywhere near the loins of her new husband.

Zits are tough. And what's a girl to do when she can't find her legendary wrinkled cut-offs, probably because they're wadded up on the balcony underneath a pile of empty Colt 45 bottles, three used condoms, and a spittoon?

Why, she turns to her very best distressed grass-stained pants, that's what:

And for good measure, she gets a gigantic Coke stain on her shirt.

I can't wait for The Best Letter I've, Like, Totally Ever Written, Y'All, because I'm eagerly anticipating the chapter wherein she explains her apparently unquellable impulse to communicate through bawdy t-shirts and trucker hats. "Carpe Assum -- Seize the Ass," her hat proclaims. Okay, Brit. We get it. You're edgy. You're nobody's princess. Neither am I anyone's princess, yet I still find time to clean my clothes, wash my hair, and actively not wear trucker hats with "clever" messages on them. Why don't you give me a call? I can show you how.

[Photos courtesy of Lime-light.org and an eagle-eyed reader.]

How embarrassing! In all the excitment surrounding the preparations for her maybe fake wedding to self-proclaimed "pimp" Kevin Federline, Britney forgot to wash and comb her hair! How totally ugh to look so greasy and unkempt in People Magazine!

The less said about the trashy "November Rain"-inspired wedding mini the better. Although I'm sure Axl Rose, who's clearly, like, living at an EconoLodge in Los Banos right now, reading People and eating chicken off of Buckethead's...bucket...is probably wondering how he can get some people again, so he can have them call Britney's people and arrange a meeting.

So, Britney Spears went ahead and married Cletus. In Studio City. And then served chicken fingers afterwards. While playing music from a boombox. I can only hope the happy couple toasted one another with Red Bull and then tossed Cheetos into the other's gaping maw.

So classy. So delightful. I am so in love with the downward spiral of Ms Spears.

But I am the most in love with these outfits, provided for the groomsman, Cletus's merry band of brothers.

Yes, they are white track suits. Yes, they say "Pimps" on the back, in black cursive script [because cursive = classy]. Because, when it comes to pledging lifelong love and fidelity to a man, what little girl doesn't dream of pledging said love and fidelity to a man who has the option of trading her vagina for money?

True love, people. True love. My heart is so full right now.

A reader sent a link to the following photo that proves, to the shock of a nation, that Britney Spears is continuing to dress like a flaming -- yet, like, totally, spiritual and stuff -- assrag:

She looks like a cast member of Police Academy 8: Asshats On Parade, in which the gang reunites to recruit drunk prostitutes into the force, train them, and then turn them back out into society as clean, productive police officers who arrest people for sartorial crimes. [Prediction: Britney's character learns she's worth something more than a Big Grab bag of Cheetos, which is what her pimp traded her to the cops for, and Steve Guttenberg earns Oscar buzz for a surprisingly sensitive return to the franchise as the man who teaches Britney that she is safe now, and can turn her back on horizontal stripes.]

The Kaballah people need to revise their ancient teachings very quickly to include a heretofore lost, yet sacred, scissors ceremony in which the red string is clipped from the wrists of people who only wear it because Madonna does. That, or it needs to add a chapter entitled, "It Is A Sin To Think That Wearing Double The Headgear Will Protect You When You Are Smote From On High."

Incidentally, if anyone's in need of a good celestial smiting, it's Britney. If taking a whizzing asteroid or some other object of divine scorn to the head doesn't knock some sense into her and make her take out the white trash from the dumpster that her vagina's become... then, well, nothing will.

Ma! Billy Ray! Break out the Cheetos and the Two-Buck Chuck, ya heah, 'cuz Cousin-Aunt Britney done near outfugged herself:

Look, Brit, there are some things so easy that even a female Ralph Wiggum like yourself can figure them out. Like underpants. THEY GO UNDER THINGS. Like, say, YOUR PANTS. Underwear is not meant to wrap around your thigh -- it's meant to leave something about your pubic grooming to the imagination -- and it's not meant as a protective measure so that you can wear fugly loose-fitting clothes that fall off your soiled ass, yet not worry about the paparazzi snapping a picture of your (wilted, dying) flower. And see those seams halfway down your shirt? Those are supposed to be BELOW your breasts, not riding so far up above one of them that you're fixin' to get put into some kind of cotton chokehold.

Finally, for the love of god, BRUSH YOUR HAIR.

That is all.

For now.

Full Disclosure: here at Go Fug Yourself, we love Britney Spears. We love dancing around to her peppy pop music whilst singing into hairbrushes and wiggling our firm and well-shaped underwear-clad asses, we love making fun of her acting skillz in Crossroads, and we love, love, love witnessing her current downward spiral.

Who would have guessed that sweet little Britters would end up engaged to a manpri-wearing, jaunty-trucker-hat-sporting, skeevy David Silver look-a-like back-up dancer? It's fantastic! Less fantastic is her slide into the fug: the Cheetos addiction, her apparent distain for hair product, the way she seemingly has stopped washing her face. This is a cry for help far more serious than her impending marriage to Cletus. I mean, look at her:

WHAT IS GOING ON HERE?