the smell of my desperation has become a stench

Anvil Latrine

Here’s what I don’t understand: what I don’t understand is how those people expect me to believe that Avril Lavigne is the “alternative” to Britney Spears.

Those people just expect me to lie down and get over the fact that this Avril creation, someone so insipidly sterile that the only thing even slightly askew about her persona is that she’s Canadian, knows the first thing about complication. I mean, complicated would be if she could knot that fucking necktie around a breast, you know what I’m saying?

And I’m like, first of all, who the hell would name a kid Avril? Avril? And I’m thinking, it has to be the same people who find themselves compelled to assign gender to inanimate objects, that’s who. And I’m thinking, since when did we take those people seriously?

And maybe it’s just the notion that she’s an “alternative,” as if what she’s doing is any different than what Britney’s been doing since she first did a back-hand-spring into my heart. Those people are bragging that Avril is writing her own music and playing her own instruments, and I’m like, since when did our pop stars need to do anything of that sort? If a pop star wrote her own music or played her own instruments she wouldn’t be a pop star. She’d be a musician.

And people, this world is too full of musicians. We need more Britneys, especially ones in red leather space suits.

And I guess what I’m thinking is that those people know that Avril Lavigne is the safe alternative to Britney: a boob-less droid groomed to stir up teen girl masses into a false sense of gritty rebellion, one who will get them thinking about something, anything other than their sexuality. And I think it totally stinks. Avril is a sexless she-boy, and she’s systematically undoing the lustrous sense of sexual awareness Britney gift-wrapped and laid at the feet of Puritan America for over four wonderful, boob-filled years.

And if this means that I’ve got to drive to Louisiana and pick Britney off her massive drunk ass myself, I will get her back, and together we will show the world once again that the best pop stars are the ones who can be confused all too easily with porn stars.

Heather B. Armstrong

Hi. I’m Heather B. Armstrong, and this used to be called mommy blogging. But then they started calling it Influencer Marketing: hashtag ad, hashtag sponsored, hashtag you know you want me to slap your product on my kid and exploit her for millions and millions of dollars. That’s how this shit works. Now? Well… sit back, buckle up, and enjoy the ride.

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