That's the opening to the first single released from Blackout, Britney Spears's sex and drugs masterpiece though the drugs aren't in the lyrics and "masterpiece" is a bit of a stretch. One friend tells me that Britney Spears is a wholly manufactured sound, the only difference between Spears and a computer program being her ability to walk onstage. At first glance, the target audience would seem to be pedophiles. But I'd still rather hear Tom say, "Worship the cock. Compare that high-energy performance with the totem-faced members of the Rolling Stones swinging their guitars over their craggy shoulder blades. Tweet It's Britney, bitch. Nine years later, did you really think she was shopping for her own groceries? They were never chosen, they insisted on taking the stage.
Do you shop for yours? Fast-forward past In the Zone, a worthless album with the exception of "Toxic. After all, artists are supposed to be self-centered and crazy. Every day I woke before 6: The only flaw, the only line in the whole song that accidentally snags on the listeners' intellect, is when Britney says, I'm Mrs. Tom Cruise, not so much. He was commiserating with me, trying to say: The juror wrote a three-page memo detailing our conversation, which the judge waved in front of me. If she did, it's likely the rest of her transgressions would be easily forgiven. It was all just a dream. A pornographic novel doesn't need to make sense; pornographic music doesn't, either. Fast-forward past the Pepsi commercial, though it is impressive to note that Britney can sing a ballad about a soda with the same skill as any of her songs. Apples and oranges, of course. They were never chosen, they insisted on taking the stage. He was deciding whether or not to bar me from the court. Tweet It's Britney, bitch. A large part of the criticism of Britney comes from the fact that she doesn't write her own songs. I have to remind people that Elvis didn't write his own songs, either. In her next album, the pining schoolgirl returns in a red-leather catsuit to tell us that she's not that innocent, that she's a self-satisfied heartbreaker. But not just any cape, a half cape that went to his elbows like an unfinished Batman costume. It's too much to be expected to empathize with this greedy, beautiful creature. Though obviously it wasn't—she's still wearing a full tube of lipstick. It's the sound of a voice at its peak, about to go into steep decline. What's going on here? My father used to tell me a good writer can write about anything and make it interesting, but I've never believed that.
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