So yesterday we — OK, I — were/was discussing the miracle of the modern internets, and ho ho, here it comes again.
Britney Spears, put on some damn panties!
I confess: I’m an occasional — OK, daily — reader of Wesmirch, the only gossip blog aggregator you’ll ever need. I don’t do it because I give a fig about such things, but because it’s so easy for a person like me, aging and working alone in the house all day in an unhip neighborhood, to wake up one day and feel entirely out of it. I still do, even with daily gossip intake. Half the faces in People magazine are strangers to me. Who the hell is Tara Reid? Have you ever heard a song by Babyshambles? Justin Timberlake, how’s your uncle Mark, with whom I went to school for a while? Is he still the Bambi-eyed, pudgy boy I remember? And which one of you is Justin, anyway?
The celebrities whose paparazzi-chronicled activities I used to pay attention to — Jack Nicholson, Sean Penn — all look like escapees from a nursing home and/or wino flop. If they go out after dark at all, I’m sure it’s only because they’re rich enough that they don’t need the early-bird special to make ends meet. But I’m sure they’re all snoring by 11 p.m., too.
Anyway, back to Britney. In the last week, a mere seven days, she’s become best friends forever with Paris Hilton and a messy old sot who goes out at night in short skirts, sans undies. Once you can forgive — every girl needs to throw down after a divorce filing — but twice? And then three times? That’s when the wire services start noticing. That’s when all the goodwill that you got by dumping your parasitical husband starts to ebb away. People start to ask questions: Did she flee the house without so much as a suitcase? Is this some sort of newfangled therapy for herpes?
Because, as I say so often around these parts, I don’t get it. Never once have I “forgotten” my panties when I was wearing anything other than sweatpants around the house on a Saturday morning. I can certainly understand how no-panties would feel more comfortable than a thong, but am I the only girl in the world who knows the secret of Jockey for Her? They’re perfectly comfortable, they come in breathable cotton, many attractive colors and cuts. I think I’m going to buy a three-pack of the bikinis and send them to this girl. Clearly she needs an underwear intervention.
Actually, many young actresses do. For all the money spent on La Perla and various other high-end lingerie brands by Hollywood celebrities, too much of it stays at home in the drawer. I will say this: It’s certainly entertaining to see the new slang that has grown up around our most slang-worthy body parts. When Lindsay Lohan got caught in a similar fix, one blogger referred to her “shredded pastrami.” Snicker.
If you’re wondering why the blog looks the way it does, I have no idea. We seem to be having some problems down in Atlanta, but my main blog guy is in Lansing, nursing sick in-laws. I’m trying to keep everything in perspective. Sick old people are more important than my blog theme.