Why Britney, why

Okay, I've put up with quite enough out of you, little missy.

First, there was that S&M-laced video of "My Prerogative," with Kevin lookin' all creepy, you eying the female help (foreshadowing!), and having some sort of goth wedding in which I swear you guys exchanged blood vials or something (quel Billy-Bangelina).

So then you married that loser. I couldn't believe it. But, I thought, every thoroughbred needs her donkey, and Madonna had Sean, so I let it go. And who among us hasn't hooked up with a loser? Shook my head but let it go. I knew it wouldn't last.

Then you procreated. And I thought, "Oh, sweet fancy Moses. This is trouble." Kevin was a general non-helpful loser during in utero, and when Sean was born he made some sort of Vanilla-Ice-esque announcement that I've blacked out of my memory. I do know I cringed.

Then you did it AGAIN, like some terrible echo of one of your hits. (Remember those, sugar?) At first I thought maybe you didn't know what causes that, but then I came to understand that K-Fed's shooting some sort of Stormtrooper sperm that can impregnate from 25 feet. Or at least that's what Shar told me. It made sense, so I went with it.

Then you announced your divorce, and girl, literally the whole world rejoiced. North Korea even shot off a missile just for you (ironic, since that's how this whole Kevin mess started). K-Fed became Fed-Ex. The world was bright and sunny. So many of us had hope for you, that perhaps you might go and study at the feet of the master, erm, Mistress, that you might once again stop, collaborate and listen to Madonna... but we'll get back to MaBuddha inna minnit.

So you start partying, as a newly-single girl would. At first, I was proud of ya, gettin' out there and bein' witcha girls. Girlfriends will get you through anything, and I was happy to see them takin' you out and havin' you shake that thang. And, truly, I also thought the cardio wouldn't be bad either.

But did you call me? Nooooooooo, girl, you dit not. You know I woulda been on the next plane! When all had fallen away, I alone remained hopeful you'd come back to us. So naturally I expected you to bang me up on my celly. My feelings were more than a little hurt when pictures of you and the Social Disease twins started popping up everywhere.

I mean, Hilton and Lohan? Come on! These two drug-addled town bicycles are looked down on by the street corner crack addicts that perform obscene acts for quarters. So I shouldn't have been surprised to see your ladyparts coming out of a limo, since you've gone so crazy you forgot to wear underwear.

Who forgets to wear underwear? Don't you feel the draft? At some point, doesn't it feel weird to go commando IN A DRESS???? And honey, the first thing a girl learns when she starts getting big enough to get out of a car by herself is how to exit said vehicle in a dress. Hell darlin', I know how to do that! Now look, you've gone and made me raise my voice.

Funny how I thought that would be the worst of it.

So now, you've apparently decided to frequent naked booty joints, in which you strip off your clothes, put on some lingerie, and start getting frisky with the female strippers.

Honey, you know I'm open-minded. I'm all for the consensual adults enjoying their sexuality, and if girls turn you on too, by all means GET TO IT. Here's the subtle hitch, sugar: NOT IN PUBLIC, dammit. Not when Fed-Ex's no-job-havin' scrub self is fighting you for custody of your two little boys, and we live in a narrow-minded hateful country. And certainly not when people can watch and are gonna take pictures of it.

People can gossip all they want, but when there's video proof of you shedding in a strip club what clothes someone who cared about you managed to staple on your overheated flesh before you fled the house, that's just sad. And quite frankly, the club girls don't like the competition. That's why a woman generally can't get into one of those places without being accompanied by a gentleman. So I've heard.

And now, at the behest of your family, fans and friends, you checked yourself into rehab in the Bahamas. Well done. Then less than 24 hours later, you checked yourself out. So, here we are.

I know you won't listen to anybody on this planet, but please sugar, I beg you, listen to Aunt Critia. You must go now. Take nothing with you, and go. The one you seek will be known by the red string bracelet and the funky Michigan/England accent. She will perhaps be reading or writing children's books. Do not let this alarm you. She alone can help you, she alone can teach you to master the powers of reinvention, resilience, innovation, and ass-kickery. You will drink tea, you will yoga, and sacred knowledge will be imparted to you. You are the Chosen One.

Now go. And don't look back, Britbrit. I still believe in you.

But I also got you this 3-pack of Hanes panties, just in case.