Guilty Pleasure: Britney Spears (original) (raw)

Pleasure should never be guilty, but oh baby, baby; forgive me ahead of time. This one’s embarrassing. I’m seriously risking some friendships and probably imposing deep and abiding questions about my sexuality with this admission.

She’s been with me since 1999, bouncing onto the scene with her repressed sexuality and teasing strut. That’s right, folks, I’m speaking of the one and only Britney Spears. I think I love her. Musically, of course. As a rule, I always do my best to separate art from the artist and she is no exception.

Please, don’t judge me. Her influence alone is enough to give her a chance. Even the indiest of the indie know who she is — and I know a few people who conspicuously don’t change the station when “Toxic” comes on. Just remember girls, if your boyfriend jumps a little when you grab at his Ipod, you might want to check under the “B’s” — there’s probably a dirty little secret lying there.

Yes, I know she doesn’t write all her songs. Yes, I am aware she is but a figurehead fronting a giant, money-making empire. But say what you want; when it comes to pop music, she’s got it. I reel at the genius of “If You Seek Amy”, I spin in glittery circles whenever I hear “E-mail My Heart”, I start bouncing up and down uncontrollably when I hear “Womanizer”. As I drive my car, I will slowly and discretely roll my windows up while I stoically recite “…Baby One More Time” (When I played an assortment of cover songs at a bar in college, that one brought the house down!). Listen to my (guilty) pleasure and you can hear the forefront of pop. Ms. Spears does it, people copy it. Mandy Moore did, Christina Aguilera did, and now there’s Katie Perry and Lady Gaga – auto-tuned, multi-layered vocals sang over hard-hitting synths and electro dancehall beats — tell me I’m lyin’!

Despite this tried and true fact about her, I’ll be the first person to admit that I become a little bit dumber every time I listen. Had I never been introduced to the mind numbing sex-pot, you better believe I’d be an astrophysicist solving issues involving string theory. Afterward, I’d take a puff from a pipe full of fine Indian tobacco I was given after I had rescued an entire village from terrorists high up in the Himalayas with The Most Interesting Man Alive. (FYI, The Most Interesting Man Alive has a Britney ringtone on his new 3GS, I’m told.)

I’m just hoping that one day blonde hair doesn’t start sprouting from my scalp: I’m very happy with my decidedly curly brunette locks. Although if for some reason I start getting tan without sunlight, updating my Facebook page with quotes like, “There’s only two types of guys out there…” and randomly tell people that my life is like a circus, please tie me to a skateboard and roll me in the direction of the nearest 100 foot drop — trust me, it’ll be necessary and for my own good.

Don’t lie either folks, as we walk down the streets with our white ear buds hanging nonchalantly out of our ears, pretending that we are, indeed, a “Womanizer”, and that yes, “It’s [insert own name here], bitch.” We want to dance, but society says no! Speaking of dancing, maybe we might even fantasize that we were a certain guy dancing our way into Ms. Spears bedroom…

So when we see each other on the Blue Line, Starbucks in hand, maybe we could give a little pinkie wiggle, just to say, you know, symbolically, that we’re there for each other, and that, like, we’ve totally called her hotline.

Check Out: