Attack Off The 50 Foot Popstar

[Mr. Bigglesworth]

ATTACK OF THE FIFTY FOOT POPSTAR

Britney is not the only one going crazy lately. The whole world has gone mad, particularly since 2001 or so.

Seems to me the child's on a rampage. I expect to hear that they're trying to shoot her down from The Empire State Building.

The war halted in Iraq; the presidential hopefuls stop their pre-season bickering; Bush forgets about trying to send more troops; and even Cheney raises his head from the soup bone he's gnawing on out on the Whitehouse lawn, because--People in bars and diners asking the respective employees behind the counters to turn up the volume on the T.V. news.--virtually every mouth in the world is agape at the bi-planes circling above Britney's head.

One comes in for a strafing run, 50 calliber machine guns blazing to pepper her chest as she roars and swings out and cups it, shattering the tail to watch it spiral down and into the building before bursting in a plume of orange billowing flames, the burning smoking fragments tumbling to earth even as she turns her attention to her next fighter ace attacker.

Finally, drenched in blood, Britney gives a sorrowful echoing roar of defeat in the direction of the setting sun. Eyes clouded by tears, she meets the gaze of her babies one last time safely on a ledge, and then teeters away from the building for the long silent fall to earth.

If only they had left her on Skull Island, and those flashbulbs hadn't started going off, sending the 8th wonder of the world into a panic. "In the end, it was paparazzi killed the beast."

Poor baby girl.

Mr. Bigglesworth