Karen H. Pittman
Britney Hussein Obama Spears
By Karen H. Pittman
Oops, he did it again: fresh out of a tone-deaf rehab-session with the Democrat Congressional caucus, Britney Hussein Obama Spears is busy gobbling up all the airtime on my TV screen, filling it up with his obscenely famous face ... and his fluffy meringue fillers. That's right: this seasoned juvenile performance artist just hit-me-baby-one-more-time — with yet another throaty rendition of his number-one platinum remake: "Yes, We Can!" Followed (and preceded) by the obligatory uh. I mean, how many times can we stand to hear this same syllable being played over and over? In between raptly choreographed, rehearsed refrains, this flaccid-tongued phenom is stuttering his way, it would seem, into the White House.
Well, it beats rapping. And tottering over in the middle of your Vegas comeback act.
I suppose.
And the gimme-more media is just lapping it up!
And why not? He's the MTV candidate, the potential Prez with pizzazz. Word up to the wise: this fist-pumping mutha's manufactured.
And what he offers would be truly toxic, if it had legs just half as sturdy as Ms. Spears', even on her drunkest day.
What, pray tell, does this Woodstock wunderkind, this latter-day inside-out Mr. Mojo Risin' shame-on-the-man shaman, deign to give us? Why, platitudes with an attitude. Behold: "We are paused on the brink of historic change." "I was against the surge before I was for it." "Hope is our only hope." And lastly, the inimitable, "Yea verily, I am a citizen of the Milky Way."
Gag me with a tune.
Messiuh-like, our staritz-starlet gives the phrase "boob tube" new life, and sets his starry-eyed Tsarinas swooning. The paparazzi press sings fawningly along. I keep waiting for Chris Matthews to plunk down a leg-thrilling 20 mill for the first photographs of Brithussama's twins — normally held in Hillary's lockbox. If this guy gets any higher on his own fumes, I'm going to call in Mel Gibson for an intervention.
And if his suit gets any emptier, he'll be the Invisible Man of Manchuria. The Britster has more syllables in her active vocabulary, and far more platforms in her closet to run on.
Our Rasputin of the Real World (and I'm talking the TV one) had no time to hang with the troops, but when the cameras were rolling, made time to bang on the hoops! (It was for a good cause — his own.) Nice to know he's got his priorities in order.
And that should make us all feel better. After all, feeling better is what it's all about. I don't know about you, but the next time Allah-whatever-Izod threatens Israel with annihilation, I'll feel better knowing Dr. Feel Good has his finger on his sphincter. And when he calls in the Joint Chiefs of Staff to charge them with their next unconstitutional military task, they can all take a good long toke of the SONG BONG (think George Carlin here): It's a small world aaaaaafter all, it's a small world aaaaaafter all, it's a small world after aaaall, it's a smaall smaall weeeeeeeeeerld. Uh.
Like Britney's whole big world after her final tumultuous breakdown, this would all be a huge joke if it weren't so serious. Time to sober up, folks, and get real about what's at stake here: nothing less than your life, especially if you happen to live, like I do, in the Terror Belt. (Lest you think I overstate my case, may I remind you of the way you felt on the morning of 9/12.) This Teleprompter Titillater, this fey Phillip Marlow of the Facile, may be laughing all the way to the whorehouse, but (my clever quips aside) we shouldn't be. Do we really want conservative talk radio silenced in favor of tired liberal retreads? Obama's oldies-but-goldies won't save us when he confiscates our guns. Reparations? Sure. Come Elvis, Martin Luther King, or Casey Kasem, this dark knight is out to prove he's no Slave 4 Us. And the dysfunctional mess he promises to make of the Supreme Court makes Spears' custody battle with Kevin Federline look like an especially endearing episode of Leave it to Beaver.
So go ahead. Cast your Idol ballot for this year's flash-in-the-pan, if you dare. (Youth of America, don't despair: at this rate, you'll soon be able to text in your vote. And hey — that rocks!) As for me, I'm sticking with my old soft shoe, my dependable if dowdy Tony Bennett, the one I know won't skip in the clutch. I'm phoning in my vote for the one and only contestant who has actually cut a record in real life: John McCain.
But then ... that's my prerogative.
© Karen H. Pittman
Oops, he did it again: fresh out of a tone-deaf rehab-session with the Democrat Congressional caucus, Britney Hussein Obama Spears is busy gobbling up all the airtime on my TV screen, filling it up with his obscenely famous face ... and his fluffy meringue fillers. That's right: this seasoned juvenile performance artist just hit-me-baby-one-more-time — with yet another throaty rendition of his number-one platinum remake: "Yes, We Can!" Followed (and preceded) by the obligatory uh. I mean, how many times can we stand to hear this same syllable being played over and over? In between raptly choreographed, rehearsed refrains, this flaccid-tongued phenom is stuttering his way, it would seem, into the White House.
Well, it beats rapping. And tottering over in the middle of your Vegas comeback act.
I suppose.
And the gimme-more media is just lapping it up!
And why not? He's the MTV candidate, the potential Prez with pizzazz. Word up to the wise: this fist-pumping mutha's manufactured.
And what he offers would be truly toxic, if it had legs just half as sturdy as Ms. Spears', even on her drunkest day.
What, pray tell, does this Woodstock wunderkind, this latter-day inside-out Mr. Mojo Risin' shame-on-the-man shaman, deign to give us? Why, platitudes with an attitude. Behold: "We are paused on the brink of historic change." "I was against the surge before I was for it." "Hope is our only hope." And lastly, the inimitable, "Yea verily, I am a citizen of the Milky Way."
Gag me with a tune.
Messiuh-like, our staritz-starlet gives the phrase "boob tube" new life, and sets his starry-eyed Tsarinas swooning. The paparazzi press sings fawningly along. I keep waiting for Chris Matthews to plunk down a leg-thrilling 20 mill for the first photographs of Brithussama's twins — normally held in Hillary's lockbox. If this guy gets any higher on his own fumes, I'm going to call in Mel Gibson for an intervention.
And if his suit gets any emptier, he'll be the Invisible Man of Manchuria. The Britster has more syllables in her active vocabulary, and far more platforms in her closet to run on.
Our Rasputin of the Real World (and I'm talking the TV one) had no time to hang with the troops, but when the cameras were rolling, made time to bang on the hoops! (It was for a good cause — his own.) Nice to know he's got his priorities in order.
And that should make us all feel better. After all, feeling better is what it's all about. I don't know about you, but the next time Allah-whatever-Izod threatens Israel with annihilation, I'll feel better knowing Dr. Feel Good has his finger on his sphincter. And when he calls in the Joint Chiefs of Staff to charge them with their next unconstitutional military task, they can all take a good long toke of the SONG BONG (think George Carlin here): It's a small world aaaaaafter all, it's a small world aaaaaafter all, it's a small world after aaaall, it's a smaall smaall weeeeeeeeeerld. Uh.
Like Britney's whole big world after her final tumultuous breakdown, this would all be a huge joke if it weren't so serious. Time to sober up, folks, and get real about what's at stake here: nothing less than your life, especially if you happen to live, like I do, in the Terror Belt. (Lest you think I overstate my case, may I remind you of the way you felt on the morning of 9/12.) This Teleprompter Titillater, this fey Phillip Marlow of the Facile, may be laughing all the way to the whorehouse, but (my clever quips aside) we shouldn't be. Do we really want conservative talk radio silenced in favor of tired liberal retreads? Obama's oldies-but-goldies won't save us when he confiscates our guns. Reparations? Sure. Come Elvis, Martin Luther King, or Casey Kasem, this dark knight is out to prove he's no Slave 4 Us. And the dysfunctional mess he promises to make of the Supreme Court makes Spears' custody battle with Kevin Federline look like an especially endearing episode of Leave it to Beaver.
So go ahead. Cast your Idol ballot for this year's flash-in-the-pan, if you dare. (Youth of America, don't despair: at this rate, you'll soon be able to text in your vote. And hey — that rocks!) As for me, I'm sticking with my old soft shoe, my dependable if dowdy Tony Bennett, the one I know won't skip in the clutch. I'm phoning in my vote for the one and only contestant who has actually cut a record in real life: John McCain.
But then ... that's my prerogative.
© Karen H. Pittman
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