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"Ooops…I did it again!!"
You’re just like the others, Britney, exactly like Cristina and Jessica and all of America’s glossy dolls, you all seem made from the same mold. All it took was me saying I'm a producer, you knelt and started to suck up, just like the others. Oh god, not literally. Literally, that happened later. The substantial difference is that with you I also managed to get to the back door (more like a gallery than a sphincter), something that was impossible with Cristina...not to mention Jessi, I would have had to drug her at the very least.
Now you're lying there, snoring naked between the silk sheets, and you snore quite a bit. Brit, what the hell are you good at? You can't sing, let alone compose, you’re not good in bed, and you can't even sleep with dignity. Why are you in the world, Brit? All this is damn unfair.
I get up disgusted, put on a pair of jeans, and thus begins my little personal revenge. But first, a pause.
The hotel window overlooking the city is still open. I sit on the windowsill, dangling my two hairy feet. The lights dazzle me, I’ve never liked all this. I look down as I smoke a cigarette. I'm on the third floor, and despite the jump that might make my femur reach shoulder height, I'm not afraid. It won't happen, I'll postpone death, suicide is not on today’s agenda. At least, not today. Strange, I’ve never suffered from vertigo.
Looks like everything else came to compensate. Damn it's cold... I turn around and see the bitch's fur coat. I reach out a hand and put it on. I turn again, just enough to stretch my hand to her purse hanging on the radiator. I glance inside...there’s her CD holder. One of Justin, a couple of 50 Cent, and a whole 4 of U2 and some other crap. I didn’t think MTV could fit in a bag. In a matter of seconds, all these nice CDs take off to the streets of Manhattan. One by one, like little flying saucers, they hover over the traffic. I don't even stay to watch where they land, I might have killed someone. You know, guilt and all.
And here comes the most beautiful CD. This one is all gold instead, it must weigh half a kilo, who knows which idiot organization it came from. She is so proud of it, always keeps it with her. I throw it high, trying to give it a spin, so that it remains perpendicular to the street. This time I know exactly where to aim. The disc sticks directly into the roof of the black limousine parked below the window. Bullseye. Tomorrow Brit will take the ride back with a limousine that looks like a taxi. What a blast. I let a few more minutes pass...
I admire your music, Brit...you have the great quality of being able to merge pop with pop, with a certain pop aftertaste, if you know what I mean. Yours is a singing that touches pop, only to return to thrill with sounds typical of the American scene, the one linked to its pop roots. And it all sounds so POP! So POP that I have to ask: why shouldn't it appeal to the POP-people?
Why do you have so much money, Brit? But above all: why do you spend it on inflating your boobs and not on conceiving something good? Why don't I spend my money to get some hair transplants and instead invest it in some absurd project? I could do so many things…Why are people so stupid? All this is incredibly unfair.
I look down. There is a homeless man. Instinctively, I toss the fur on him, more out of spite than goodwill, because I want to do wrong to the sow sleeping a few meters from me. It lands right on his head...he slumps down...damn, I killed him…no, here he moves again.
He gets up, he has a surprised face...manna has arrived, friend. Who knows what the hell he thinks, you don’t see dead animals rain down every day. If only he knew the owner’s name, he could make some good money. Too bad for him (or lucky him?) he doesn’t even know who the hell she is. But
it's also likely that for him, that bunch of animal fur has more meaning than the name of the "singer" in question. It sure does for me too.
Alright, I’ve had enough fun. I go back in the room, get dressed. I see her panties on the carpet, they are an orange color, quite ghastly. I put them on my head. I sincerely hope someone sees me, or that some bastard photographer is lurking outside the apartment or the hotel. So then with my crusader helmet on my head, all proud and straight, I walk out. I turn on the player with the latest Meshuggah and enjoy the massacre of my own brain…
..Or it could mean,
that you are the righteous men and I am the shepherd,
and it’s the world that is wicked and selfish perhaps,
that I’d like to think…
but that isn’t the truth.
The truth is, you are the weak,
And I am the tyranny of evil men.
And you’re not trying, in no way, to become the shepherd.
From Devin Townsend's diary. 17/02/2002
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