A plea to Britney Spears: a fallen pop icon

OH BRITNEY. HOW the mighty have fallen.

You once were a beacon of hope for young girls and drag queens from the South who could rise above their deep-fried, banjo-strumming origins and become somebodies.

But look at you now. You’re a train wreck, and nearly every single one of your fans is ready to desert you.

By now, most of you readers have seen (or at least heard about) Britney Spears’ infamous crotch shots, circulating online on the likes of Perez Hilton and Pink Is The New Blog.

I hope the pictures were as damning for you as they were for me.

Britney, you are a bazillionaire. But you are also the mother of two young children, both of whom will have to face untold scrutiny when they enter school. The former does not excuse your recent behavior. The latter should be your motivation for covering up.

Your fans know you’re young, that you want to have a good time. But they are also aware of the consequences of life choices. You cancelled the remainder of your “Onyx Hotel Tour” to hang with K-Fed.

Boo.

You televised your courtship and marriage to him in a way that painted you as victim of a lobotomy in “Chaotic.” More boos.

Now, US Weekly and the paparazzi that keep the mag in business have every terrible photograph of you looking as though you just escaped from a mental institution. Tres boo.

The majority of us made it through grade school without the other kids having access to photos of our mothers’ crotches.

Britney’s kids do not have said luxury.

And I pity them. Truly.

Because the reality of the situation is that there is no worse time in a person’s life than high school.

You have bad skin, chemistry is a requirement, and you have to wear those terrible jersey-blend P.E. shorts.

Factor in that your mom was once seen without her bottoms, and you face social suicide.

Luckily, I have determined a course of action that might make Britney’s career comeback a little more plausible. Britney, wherever you are, put down the Camels, push your Bud Light to the side, and take a moment to observe the following.

First, hire a stylist. You know why Nicole Richie and Rachel Bilson always take good pictures?

Because they look good in clothing they paid someone to put them in.

This cowgirl-barefoot-rodeo-sheik look you are trying to rock makes you look dumpy. Gross.

Nobody wants a saggy pop star.

Second, stay out of the limelight. No self-respecting mother of two hosts a New Year’s Eve party in Las Vegas only to pass out there. Take your kids to a library. Or a therapist. Right now, they both could benefit from some light reading and heavy medication. You owe it to them. They didn’t exactly have say in the matter of their conception.

Third, lose the accent. Stop saying “Y’all.” It is not becoming. Never was, never will be. (I’m fairly certain of this.)

Fourth, do some charity work. Britney, there is some pretty heavy stuff going on in Malawi, Darfur and Thailand, and the kids in those places could really benefit from increased awareness of their plight.

Take a moment to demonstrate that you are aware there is actual suffering going on, and you have the ability to change some of that for children everywhere.

It’ll look nice. Call up Madonna and see how you can help.

Fifth, and I can’t stress this enough, get some new hair extensions. Your scalp looks as though it just had a battle with a food processor, exposed wires and a large body of water.

No more wigs. No more acrylic hair.

Rogaine and regain the locks we all knew and loved.

Lastly, buy some panties. Wear them. Use them. Abuse them.

I write all of this not to embarrass you, but to remind you that you were once on top of the world. Millions of people wanted to be you. Not now.

And if you keep up the bizarre-o behavior, nobody ever will again. Do yourself and your fans a favor. Get help.

Quickly.

Andrew Corcostegui is a senior at Fresno State majoring in English.

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