Pitching one’s self into the whiffy mud of the populaire is, as you know, giddy fun.
And, let it be said, this week there are plot points of satisfactory quality INCLUDING a Britney Bad Mommy reprise.
However, it is with a leaden heart I offer a week’s digest of important debris. For I learned that we have all missed International Talk Like a Pirate Day. By an entire month.
There are few occasions not improved by means of a poor West Country accent. Next year, when my handicap is hovering at something below a parlous 89, I hope to be able to say,
“I made paaarrrrrr.”
Or, perhaps I could say to the peculiarly talented Amy Winehouse,
“You look terrible, east some Caaarrrrrbs.”
If you’ve not heard of this tabloid treasure, she’s a little like Courtney Love. Albeit with a far greater (a) faculty for substance abuse and (b) talent.
Recently dropped by 007 producers as the author of the next Bond theme song, the out-and-proud bulimic lost no time in getting herself arrested. In tolerant Norway, of all places.
Brava, La Spears. In a visual economy crowded with badly behaved young women, you again wail like a wanton diva. This Callas of crack must have done something awful. Perhaps she has become a public virtuoso on her flesh mandolin. Perhaps, under the influence of scrutiny or smack, she humped a fire hydrant. I dunno, do you expect me to read all this stuff?
I’ve been reading Ulysses for the last EIGHTEEN YEARS, so why should I endure anything more than the gist of this nonsense?
Anyhoo, the Los Angeles Superior Court has suspended the mother’s rights to visitation. Which is sad. Of course.
However, we must remember that Britney is a carbon metaphor for the profligate United States and not an actual person.
She’s not real.
If you don’t believe me, skype her and ask her to repeat Descartes’ dictum.
Which, of course, you’ll recall is
Cogito AAAARRGO Sum
Only another eleven months until International Talk Like a Pirate Day.