An open letter to Britney Spears' publicist

Dear Britney Spears' publicist:

So, Dirty Holly is in town for the Renegade Craft Fair, and before she hopped her plane to the Big Apple yesterday, she emailed me, reminding me that Britney Spears, your client, would be on Dateline. We decided that we'd make dinner (vegetarian taco salad), drink a little bit of wine (which turned into a lot of wine) and, thanks to the magic of DVR, watch Britney and then So You Think You Can Dance. This, Britney Spears' publicist, is probably too much information for you. But I digress.

So, Britney Spears' publicist. Let's talk about Dateline, shall we? First of all, you let Britney go ON TELEVISION to complain about MEDIA COVERAGE. Are you kidding me? Do you fail to see the irony in that situation? Because if so, you're the only person who did. Second of all, you let her go on said television show in a see-through shirt that did not cover her pink bra. You let her go on television with smudged eye makeup and too much blush. You didn't make her brush her hair first, and you let her chomp on gum the whole time. This, Britney Spears' publicist, makes me think you might be just dialing it in when it comes to your job.

Look, Britney Spears' publicist. I am fully aware that the ridiculously hot Britney who I wanted to make out with a whole lot is never coming back. I get that. I could never touch a woman who had carried the Federline seed without being really grossed out. That said, please hire her a stylist who will make her hair shiny and not paint her face like a five-dollar whore. Buy her some cute maternity clothes. She can afford them. And please God, either teach the girl the "right" way to use finger quotes, or tell her to STOP USING THEM.

In conclusion, Britney Spears' publicist, I suspect you're either lazy or you hate your client. Kindly start doing your job. I want my Britney back.

Love,
Jess

P.S. How creepy was in when Matt Lauer asked Britney to describe motherhood, because he "loves it when mothers talk about their children." DH and I rewound it like, six times, and laughed a little bit louder each time. I'm pretty sure it killed DH's disturbing crush on him.