Johnnersintheraw's Blog

June 5, 2010

TheBritneys

Spastic Colons and Dickheads and Random Subliminal Sightings of Britney.

Now children, before you get on your high horses I want you to know that the Spastic Colon we are going to discuss today is not the same Spastic Colon that has been staying with your mother-in-law for the last year and a half.  If it were I would obviously agree to substantiate any findings by seeking out some sort of verification from at least two reputable institutions of higher learning, such as Wikipedia and any randomly chosen wall of Facebook, especially any celebrity whose first name begins with the letter ‘B’.  Britney, for example.

But before we go any further, I have an admission to make.  It seems that for any one person who actually checks out my blog (please note I did not say ‘reads’ by blog, because then I would be in trouble), at least twenty million people investigate anything in which even the name ‘Britney’ is mentioned.  Ergo, ‘Britney’ ‘Britney’ ‘Britney’ Britney ‘Britney’.  That should do it!  By my reckoning at least one billion people should have checked out my blog within the last fifteen seconds.  Of course, if they have the site has probably crashed, in which case my hosts will have kicked me off for fucking up their weekend and forcing them to come in and untangle the mess.  ‘Britney’. Mind you, if they do kick me off, some wonderfully concerned citizen will immediately start a few hundred Facebook pages urging my hosts to reinstate me.  I know I am not big news like ‘Britney’, but I reckon if I can drum up one million signatures from each one of my three hundred new Facebook fan pages, I should not only be welcomed back but I should be given a free upgrade and have my blog mentioned on their front page.  ‘Britney’. I mean if some woman who witters on about the joy of being a real woman and who celebrates her real womaness  by eating three dozen butterscotch crullers from Dunkin Donuts achieves Blog notoriety, why can’t I?  I realise I am not overweight and don’t look like Prunella the Elephant Seal, and I realise I discriminate against all the fat people in the US and Britain by actually taking care of myself and watching what I eat.  ‘Britney’. Yes, I know I shall be taken to task by Mr. Murdoch’s minions for eating fresh salads instead of skarfing twenty-five supersized ‘Happy Meals’ during my lunch break and limiting my intake to ten million calories per day – real woman calories, of course, of the kind real women  find at the cakes and cookies sections at Walmart and Asda.  ‘Britney’. And while I’m at it (as they say, “in for a penny, in for a pound”) why is it that so many columnists continually whinge about the size of supermodels and claim that they are the evil conspiracy behind every ailment known to man? ‘Britney’. Well, at least every ailment known to young girls. Interestingly enough these selfsame columnists – who after all supposedly work in publishing – don’t seem to be aware that for every ten girls that suffer from anorexia, about fifty thousand million cannot even squeeze through the door of their mummy’s car. ‘Britney’.  Of course, I do realise the onus is on the automobile-makers for not designing their new cars the size and shape of blimps.  Speaking of which, that selfish short-sightedness might be the reason so many American car manufactures are going belly-up.  ‘Britney’. The good ol’ American consumer simply can’t be shoehorned into their new models!  As I like to say, “Where is the Edsel when we need it!”  But back to the columnists. It goes without saying that most of them never target the ‘celebrity’ magazines, whose main business is to publish candid photographs of ‘celebrities’ when they’ve gained a pound or two and have two hundred inches of cottage cheese bulging from their thongs.  ‘Britney’. But – silly me – they can’t can they?  After all, they cannot attack the ‘celebrity’ magazines because the ‘celebrity’ magazines are also owned by the same corporation that publishes the columnists other columns, plus the fact that the columnists also write a column for the ‘celebrity’ magazines themselves. ‘Britney’.  But never mind, it all works out in the end, for the same publishers also own the fashion magazines, the ones that use the very same photographs, only shrinking the celebrity’s body to a US size zero and giving the celebrity a face and a body and a blow-job expression such as only a electrically charged sixteen year old can actually manage in the flesh. And then the poor ‘celebrity’, who is well over thirty and has had seventeen children and boobs hanging down to her knees, has got to live up to the fashion spreads. ‘Britney’. Because, you see, her entire career is based on her red-carpet appearances, which means she can no longer work at her chosen profession but has to endure weekly encounters with her plastic surgeon and her dermatologist, as well as spend ten hours per day working out in the gym – before returning home and embalming herself with tanning solvents and wrapping herself in plastic baggies for the night.  ‘Britney’. And no, I won’t tell you which pop singer I’m talking about.  But it’s not ‘Britney’. Or perhaps I will. Then maybe she’ll sue me and then at least a few people – namely readers of the Sun the News of the World – shall have heard of me.  They still won’t read my blog, but they will have heard of me, which means I shall be asked to appear in next year’s edition of Strictly Come Dancing.  Or as you tossers on the other side of the pond call it, ‘Britney’. Also known as Dancing with the Stars. Which reminds me, why hasn’t Britney herself been asked to appear on that particular slugfest of humiliation.  Then they could really attract the punters by calling it Britney’s Dancing with the Stars Starring ‘Britney’.

And once that happens, my hosts will have to give my blog a mention in their Home Page. ‘Britney’

But where was I?  Oh, yes: ‘Britney’.  Or as I should say (being the desperately unemployable huckster that I am), ‘Britney’ ‘Britney’ Britney’ ‘Britney’ ‘Britney’.  There, that should pay my rent for the next ten or twenty years.  And in case any shyster lawyer decides to sue me for defaming the character of any one particular ‘Britney’ or for earning a few thousand days’ wages freeloading on the back of any one of the many random  Britneys there seem to be so many of, I say this: ‘Britney’.  If you are going to sue me for using the name ‘Britney’ in order for your law office to earn enough money to replace the money that was invested in your clients’ trust finds and which you stole (I’m sorry, did I say ‘stole’?  I meant ‘borrowed’), doesn’t that mean you will have to sue every single parent that ever stuck one of their own little blond brat daughters with the name ‘Britney’?  It reminds me of the time – way back when his comb-over was new and when he had hadn’t yet managed to re-name Manhattan after himself.  ‘Britney’. Did I say ‘Britney’?  I meant ‘Trumphattan’, didn’t I, which you have to admit is sorta catchy, innit?   Anyway, it seems the comb-over tried to sue some poor schmuck whose family name was actually Comb-Over for daring to use the comb-over’s name, even though – being far older than the comb-over – the greedy Comb-Over who was being sued was – according to papers filed by the comb-over – preventing the comb-over from tearing down Comb-Over’s his third-floor cold-water walk-up and building a golf resort. ‘Britney’.  Or perhaps it was for having a full head of hair of his own, which – come to think of it – was both highly insulting to ‘The Donald’ and even downright discriminatory). ‘Comb-over’.  I mean, ‘Britney’. And doesn’t this also remind one of the time (again, back when the earth was new and the comb-over didn’t dye his ‘come-over’) when ‘McDonalds’ went after a small Scottish eatery for calling itself ‘McNibbles’ or something like that?  Apparently ‘McDonalds’ was not aware that every man-jack in Scotland is a ‘Mc’ or a ‘Mac’ – after all, ‘Mc’ or ‘Mac’ (which are one and the same thing) does mean ‘son of’, as in McBritney – but I guess they hadn’t heard the news  in whatever middle-western Smallville spawned the original ‘Croc’.  I also seem to remember that Scotland, as a country, was not overly impressed with McDonald’s shenanigans and that the Chief of the Clan MacDonald presented some sort of legal challenge to ‘McDonalds’ in which it was pointed out that he and he alone was the only person on the planet who was entitled to call himself ‘Britney’.  I mean, ‘The MacDonald’ (a fact that might have inspired ‘The Donald’ to try to buy every speck of oceanfront property on all the coasts and islands of Scotland just so he could sue ‘The MacDonald’ for daring to include the ‘Donald’ part of his name without first having a golf resort built on top of his head. Next thing you know, Scotland will be renamed ‘Trumpland’ – or as I prefer to call it, ‘Comb-Over Land’ and ‘The MacDonald’ will be reduced to calling himself ‘The Mac’. ‘Britney’.  And this will, of course, lead to yet another suit by McDonald’s claiming copyright infringement and even for trying to tarnish McDonald’s good name – which, come to think of it, is what the Campbells have been trying to do for centuries.  ‘Britney’.   After all, since Scotland is the official deep-fried nation of the world, what with deep-fried pizzas and deep-fried Mars Bars and Deep-fried kabobs and the Deep-Friend ‘Tartan Army’ and Deep-Fried Skull-Splitter, McDonalds certainly did not want to lose out on their best potential super-sizing market in the world.  Next to Southern Louisiana, of course.  Don’t you find all this legal manoeuvring exhausting?  Don’t you find ‘Britney’ exhausting? 

But, as I said before, all those things happened a long time ago when people were still able to fit into the seats at Wimbledon; before they had to tear down the old centre court and build seats big enough for Jumbo the Elephant. ‘Britney’. And this reminds me, what plonker decided that after over a century of enjoying the ever-present risk of deluges and flooding at the Wimbledon Tennis Tournament – which after all had been one of the oldest and most treasured traditions in all of  tennis, and one right up there with ‘strawberries and cream’ and calling female contestants ‘Miss’ – did they suddenly decide they had to install a roof?  Was it for ‘Britney’?  Why? Did some consultant or other employ a focus group in Sheboygan and determine that Her Majesty’s subjects were suddenly afraid of getting wet?  Why is it that everything is getting so bloody Americanised?  Even ‘Britney’.  And why doesn’t anybody ever say ‘NO’.  I mean, the last time anyone in Britain actually said ‘NO’ to the US, was when Harold Wilson said ‘NO’ to Britain’s becoming involved in Vietnam. I mean, is America so small it doesn’t have enough people in its own country to make better Americans?  Do they have to pick on everybody else?  Or are they still afraid Britain is going to charge interest on the tea tax they got into such a huff about?  ‘Britney’.

Of course, it goes without saying that America knows how to be patient and bide its time.  After all, they were willing to wait two-hundred years for ‘Britney’, weren’t they?  And I guess in the end the wait was worth it, for when they really needed a really good ‘YES-MAN’, good Ol’ Tony Blair flashed his teeth, rolled over exposing his stomach, and said, “Britney!”   

Now I was just about to launch an attack on the current propensity of penniless American billionaires to buy Premier League Football Clubs.  I suppose, it’s only natural; after all, they can’t really buy one their own ‘soccer’ clubs, can they, seeing as how most of their clubs have fan bases of less than twenty-five people.  And by that, I mean the same twenty-five people that charter Greyhound buses in order to sit in front of the television cameras at each match of each and every team during the season to make appear that ‘Britney’ really is a popular sport – and not just an extra-curricular activity for the sons and daughters of moms driving SUVs.  ‘Britney’.  And if it weren’t for the die-hard loyalty of these twenty-five fans, the poor players would never have anybody who actually knew they existed.  ‘Britney’.  Of course, they could rename their own version of the sport ‘Britney’ and invite Janet Jackson to perform at all the matches, but nobody ever seems to think of really practical solutions, do they?

But anyway, since the Latin American and Spanish and French teams seem to be quite happy the way they are, that leaves only the good Ol’ Special Friendship to open the doors and grease the wheels of commerce. ‘Britney’.  And so, the chequebook comes out, the contracts are signed, and then comes the moments when the fun begins.  No, not Janet Jackson performing at half-time.  And not even ‘Britney.  What actually happens is this: no sooner have the contracts been signed that – OOPS! – there is no money in the bank to honour the cheque.  But never mind,  there is always the other way.  And so, as per usual, the British roll over and say ‘YES’.  And the clubs – rather than being bought with real money – somehow end up having to buy themselves on behalf of the new owners, and then of course they have to repay the owners for the money the owners didn’t spend, plus the interest on all the debt accrued when the clubs had to borrow the money to buy themselves on behalf of the owners.  ‘Britney’. And since by now the clubs don’t have any more money to pay for decent players and the clubs start to lose games, the fans decide to raise their own money to pay off the deadbeat owners and hopefully force them to leave the country and to go back home and ruin their own sporting franchises.  But then a strange thing happens.  ‘Britney’.  By this time the owners are universally despised by every player and by every employee and by every fan, but they suddenly decide they are not going to sell.  And they take photographs of themselves standing next to the models of the new stadiums they had promised to build.  Which, of course, were never built for the simple reason that all the team’s hard-earned money had gone to pay off the debt  they didn’t have before the new American owners bought them.  ‘Britney’.  But I had promised not to bring this up, and so I won’t.  Which means I am a liar, which means I might have a future as a penniless American billionaire.  Perhaps I will buy ‘Britney’.

I have this feeling that when the new American owners of one particular unnamed Premier League Football Club had the club buy its self on behalf of the themselves (‘themselves’ being the new American owners), they might have been trying to take a leaf out of their own history.  ‘Britney’. You known the leaf I mean: when a certain alleged Florida Major League Baseball team was allegedly owned by these same alleged owners long before they were the new alleged American owners of the alleged Premier League Football Club?  I’m sure you your remember.  This was the alleged team that happened to allegedly win the alleged World Series of ‘Britney’. Of course, having reached the pinnacle of American Baseballdom, the alleged owners apparently realised the only way the alleged team was allegedly going to go was down.  And so what they did was to get allegedly get rid of all the allegedly expensive players so they could allegedly destroy the alleged team before it could destroy itself.  ‘Britney’.  And it worked!  So, I really suspect that they thought it was high-time they tested this alleged formula again.  But of course, they reckoned without the good old British unions (who know how to say ‘NO’ and mean it – without even once using the words ‘alleged’ or ‘allegedly’).  ‘Britney’. Very possibly, these new American owners had been informed that during the eighties, Margaret Thatcher had destroyed the unions.  Well, let’s put it this way:  Margaret Thatcher is gone but the unions are not.  ‘Britney’.  And neither are the good old British fans, who are gloriously and rampantly un-politically correct.

However, at this point in time I’ll wager that the new American owners are kicking themselves that they didn’t wait to have the Premier League Football Club buy themselves until after a whole new door was allegedly opened by a certain world-devouring food conglomerate called ‘Britney’. Or do I mean Tyrannosaurus Rex?  ‘Britney’. Or was it ‘Kraft’? Do you remember them?  They are the ones who – only last year – bought Cadbury’s Chocolates with a cast-iron promise not to lay off British workers at the UK-based Cadbury’s factories. ‘Britney’.  Except, of course, the day after the deal had been signed, they reneged on the promise and sacked everybody.  And only did they do that, but the head of Kraft, who earns a seven figure annual salary, refused to appear before parliament to explain her actions.  And now, Cadbury’s Chocolate, that great old British institution founded by a sweet old Quaker gentleman, makes its products from the most cost-effective dirt possible in whatever is currently the cheapest country. And no, it is not ‘Britney’.

But never mind.  All I really want out of life – besides a really great blow-job – is for at least one person to allegedly read my alleged blog and to hate me enough to allegedly sue me.  ‘Britney’. But, it goes without saying this will never happen, and nobody will ever leave the sort of libellous comments on my page that will encourage my hosts to put me on their home page. Right next to the Real Woman who is exalting over the pleasures of being a Real Woman whilst eating the entire inventory of Dunkin Donuts.  ‘Britney’.  Which reminds me:  as I’ve said before we all have our weight and fitness issues. However in the case of this particular real-woman in Dunkin Donuts, mightn’t she one day regret bragging on her blog about her full-figured, real-woman’s body and about how she achieved satisfaction from eating her way through the sourdough crullers with the chocolate sprinkles?  Or was it from the orgasm she was given in exchange for a coupon by the high school kid in charge of the sprinkles?  ‘Britney’. After all, health is heath.  And if you abuse your health, somewhere down the line someone might well have to pay the price for such a wonderful real-woman’s inconveniences such as strokes or diabetes.  From my own experience, insurers are not overly-endowed with senses of humour, and they also know how to say ‘NO’.  Like ‘Britney’. And since insurance companies are usually multi-national companies and not British, when they say ‘NO’ they actually mean ‘NO’.  And so what is the real woman who’s had a stroke and is in danger of losing her feet through diabetes going to do?  I mean, with her special wheelchair and oxygen tank she’ll never again fit through the door of Dunkin Donuts, will she?  ‘Britney’.

But what – I hear you ask – does all this have to do with Spastic Colons?  Besides giving me a chance to write ‘Britney’ a hundred or more times in order to builder up my readership?  Nothing really.  Mind you, it would make a rather nice name for your first-born son or for the detective of a new series of mysteries.  ‘Britney’. NO, not ‘Britney’, ‘Spastic Colon’. Say it out loud and savour the sound.  ‘Spastic Colon’.  ‘Britney’. Spasdickus Colonicus. ‘Britney’. Spaz Clon. ‘Britney’.  Noloc Cirsaps. ‘Britney’. ‘Britney’s Colon’. ‘Britney’s Colonic Irrigation System’.  Which is, by the way, my suggestion for the title track of her next album.  For as you may have noticed, nothing is too good for Britney.

Not even Britney.  Cuz I wuv her and want to bear her childwen.  Sorry, Dunkin-Donut real-woman lady, ‘Britney’ got here first.

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