...and let me tell you why. Yes, you failed with Britney. She forgot how to suck in her tummy. She didn’t take an upper before her VMA performance. You let her leave the house with that weave thing on her head like a Jamaican tourist from Kentucky. But there was still hope. Her name was Jamie Lynne Spears.
If you were any kind of a mother, you would have taken Jamie Lynne to study at Broadway Dance Center, stapled some blonde extensions to the back of her head, and thrown her on a red carpet with Zac Effron. But, no. You let your baby have a baby.
Okay, it happens. Sixteen-year-olds girls get pregnant in hot, passionate fits of romance in Sonic parking lots everywhere. Love is a beautiful thing. Fine.
But a real mother would have locked Jamie Lynn in a basement for nine months and sent that baby to some nice family in Wyoming. Or put the baby on Craigslist.
So, I’m over it. All of you. See if I ever teach my nieces the choreography to “Oops I Did It Again” in their red footie pajamas again.
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