Jess invited me to a "white trash potluck dinner" last night for the premier of Britney & Kevin: Chaotic, and I'd like to say I didn't want to go, but I like to gawk at a trainwreck just as much as the next loser. I brought Cheetos and a nice Oregon Pinot Noir. Like Nelly Frutado, I am torn between my high and low brow halves.
The show was not a disappointment if you wanted your jaw dropped by acne ridden stupidity. Britney Spears is retarded, and I mean that not in the politically incorrect sense for mentally challenged, but in the old literal meaning of someone whose development has stopped. She has peaked at the age of sixteen, melodramatically pining for an ex while bragging about acheiving her first orgasm. Good sex should be like doing well at sports; act like you have been there before. Also, there should be a law separating sixteen-year-olds and their video cameras. A close-up of a shiny nose and incessant giggling is not funny. Honey, you are so pretty when you are quiet. Why spoil it?
Even though the show was palm-sweatingly empathetic emabarrasment for stupid people everywhere, the grub was good. Dorito Salad (Doritos, hamburger, cheese, and tomatoes), pork chops marinated in ketchup and coke, mac-n-cheese, pigs-n-blanket, and fish sticks. For dessert, Twinkies in chocolate sauce. Life is an exercise in destroying yourself slowly. Last night we sped it up.
The food and the voyeuristic look into the vapid world of bubble pop and school girl crushes left me with a gastromic and emotional McDonald's-esque hangover. I need to purge. I need redemption. Today it is nothing but Shredded Wheat, Proust, and indie rock, which demonstrates the hidden point of the show. It is not a love story, like they sold it to Britney. It is designed to make us all feel a little better about ourselves.
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Site of the Day: Speaking of weird food, here is what they are eating this month at Juniata Gap Elementary (PDF).
