An Open Letter to Britney Spears

Dear Britney,

You don't know me, but I've been watching your exploits from afar. It's obvious to even the casual observer that you're on the road to ruin, and the time has finally come for me to speak up.

You are completely out of control, girlfriend, and you desperately need someone to help. I've been in that exact same situation, so I think I am uniquely qualified for that position.

Hell, I've cut more lines than Francis Ford Coppola. My nose was redder than Rudolph's. It didn't just run occasionally: it stretched beforehand, and did cool-down exercises afterward.

Frankly, if I'd worked in a French restaurant I'd have shot less horse. I've had more bad trips than Steve Fossett, and scored more shit than Danny Elfman. My veins were so abused I had to shoot smack in my arteries and then stand in a centrifuge. Hell, take one look at me and it's obvious I didn't spend my cash on clothes.

As for exposing myself, girlfriend, you aren't even a close second. Mussolini actually asked me for advice about parading his privates. I had to fax my calendar to Sotheby's to make sure they weren't showing their jewels at the same time.

Sex? Been there, done that, got the Valtrex. I've forced more tongues into grooves than Bob Vila. I've been drilled like the Alaska wilderness, and blown more sailors than Hurricane Katrina. I've fingered more organs than Liberace, aired more old Slash than VH1, flogged more tired Dickens than PBS.

So trust me, girlfriend. I've been there. I'm probably the one person in the world who can help. Please, call me today.

Signed,
Everybody in Hollywood

P. S. You won't mind if I sell this as a reality show, right?