BRITNEY & BJORK: CRAZY AS A CAREER CHOICE

I confess that the pixie lunatic from Iceland has once again caught me by surprise. Bjork from Ork, the pop star elf, the Reykjavik space cadet, the musical sex kitten, touched down in Auckland recently for a concert and, like the wrathful Goddess Freya from Norse mythology, tore into a photographer from the New Zealand Herald, ripped his shirt off his back and ended up on the linoleum on her cute little lunatic ass. The last time Bjork went off like this was when a reporter had the temerity to say to her, “Welcome to Bangkok”. But this time there was no such taunting. Bjork just lost it, as if she hadn’t liked the movie or her chicken Kiev had been overdone and she had been saving up all that anger until she got back on the ground where she could earn a little press.
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You couldn’t make this stuff up unless you’ve been stranded out to sea in an open boat for a week with ten gallons of mead and some peyote. That must be how the Vikings discovered America. And speaking of America, have you noticed that for every sixty headlines that Britney Spears produces, Bjork manages to scare up at least one new one? She’s like the European version of American health care; far less expensive and yet she has all the same problems.
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According to Norse Myth, Freya, the Goddess of sex, fertility, war and wealth, wore a feather dress and flew into battle in a golden war wagon drawn by pussy cats. And if that doesn’t describe little Bjork Guomundsottir I don’t know my Nordic myths. And Freya occasionally teamed up with Frigg, the North German Goddess of marriage and motherhood and also fertility and love, who sounds a little bit like the fecund felonious Britney, for purposes of this discussion. And when Frigg wept, she wept tears of gold, and that description fits our little Miss Brit perfectly.
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Britney is our unstable national treasure, worth, according to portfolio.com, about $120 million a year to our ailing economy, plus $400 million in music sales over the last ten years, $150 million in concert tour ticket sales and $100 million in perfume sales. A cover photo of Britney with or without hair on her head increases magazine sales by about 1.3 million copies, and she accounts for 1/3 of all magazine covers, making her worth another $350 million a year to the publishing industry. It seems the only thing keeping America out of an economic depression might be Britney’s mental depression. Stabilizing her psychosis should be the top priority for both the Federal Reserve Bank and the bank of KFed. Just, please, Odin, don’t make her well. We can’t afford that.
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Bjork just seems a better educated and slightly saner version of Brit. She’s still crazy, of course, but we’re talking comparatively, here. Compare their thoughts on wealth; Bjork said dismissively, “If nothing else, I have money.” Brittney boasted “I’m rich, freakin’ rich.” And on fame, Bjork observed, “People come to you and you know exactly what they’re after; if they want to give you something or take something away or are simply curious. It’s often a good reason…”, while Britney observed, “I’m famous, but I’m not famous like freaking Brad Pitt or Jennifer Aniston.” Britney later elaborated on the freaking perks of her freaking lifestyle, “The cool thing about being famous is traveling. I have always wanted to travel across seas, like to Canada and stuff.” And Bjork observed that there are some things that freaking money and freaking fame can’t freaking buy you, when she said, “There’s no such freedom in the world that you can pick anything you want and put it in your butt”.
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It’s almost like freaking poetry, isn’t it? The limitations and responsibilities of freedom have not been phrased so lyrically and succinctly since Thomas Jefferson put down his quill and started making viral videos. Either one of these women are quite capable of being the perpetrator of a killing spree. The only difference between them is that I expect Britney will start shooting in a night club because she doesn’t like the way people are looking at her, while Bjork will likely just walk down Hollywood Boulevard executing everyone she thinks is dressed too negatively.
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You doubt that could happen? Just remember that old Norse limerick, The Lay of Thrym, that begins, “Wrathful was Freyja and fiercely she snorted…” Clearly the lady wasn’t cooperating so the other gods put a dress on Thor and “…a pretty cap to crown his head”, and in her place sold Thor in marriage to a giant. Thor escaped from this dire predicament by butchering the giant’s sister, and everybody had a good laugh; everybody except the giant, of course, and his sister. And then there was the joke they played on the god Lukey, who was forced to change himself into a horse and was mounted by a stallion and then gave birth to a,…well, I don’t want to spoil the joke. But you can understand now why Bjork is the way she is.
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But why is Britney as crazy as a loon? If you know anything about Britney’s mother you wouldn’t even bother asking that. And, by the way, Britney’s doppelganger, the goddess Frigg, is also credited with giving us the name of the last day of the work week, Figgday, or Friday. And I guess Britney's favorite day would be Friggday the 13th.

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Right, Bjork?

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BRITNEY SPEARS BREAKS THE BANK

I wonder if Britney Spears will buying her little K-Feds the new techo-toy savings bank from Takara Tomy. It vibrates and flashes and finally sets off an alarm when the kid goes too long between feeding it nickels. Takara introduced a popular version last year with comic characters who danced across a screen to encourage little brats to save, but now the company has escalated to the nagging little “bank bomb” that warns in increasing levels of hysteria before finally “blowing up”, and scattering the diaper-dandy’s pathetic life savings all over the floor, just like the real banks are doing. The idea, says a company official, is that the customer must “…reflect on their laziness.” Can you picture Mommie Weirdest, the multi-millionaire trailer park tramp, who burns through $102,000 in “entertainment” expenses every month, ever reflecting on anything? It was Socrates, if you believe Plato, who said that the unexamined life is not worth living, and the swamp diva from Louisiana seems determined to prove him right.
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Of course, you can examine your life so closely you miss it, such as the “vegan-sexuals” described by a New Zealand anthropologist who won’t date “carnisexuals” because their bodily fluids are the by-products of dead animals. Obviously these vegan-supremacists adhere to the code that lips that touch pork shall never pork mine, or mine vine either, but how far are they willing to carry this vegan-obsession? Will they trust their money only to vegan-capitalists, their faith only to vegan-theologians, and their ennui only to vegan-vagueness? Considering how difficult it is to find a soul mate under normal circumstances it seems a little silly to eliminate any and all who might like a little bit of sole once in awhile.
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And consider how hard it must be for your average run-of-the-mill supermodel to find a rich dolt willing to tolerate the bulimia and lack of bone density, not to mention the lack of a minimum mental requirement for the career path, as did the stick-with-legs in a size 4 dress who calls herself Le Call. She is, according to her agency, a 5’10”, 34 – 24- 34, blue eyed blond who borrowed a $1,000 Gaultier umbrella last summer from Mr. Nello Balan, who owns a restaurant on Madison Avenue. And, according to what Nello told Page Six of the NYPost, when the sun came out the next day the little air head forgot all about the umbrella. And then when Nello sent her an e-mail asking for its return she whined that his restaurant was so expensive it made her “kinda sick”. I guess she was actually paying for herself that night because she only promised to return in a couple of weeks when some “boys” were coming into town who were willing to pay for her. Ever wonder what the life of a supermodel is like? It turns out it’s a lot like the life of a high class whore.
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Weeks later, with still no unctuous umbrella in hand, Nello got pissy. “Can you FedEx that umbrella? Or have you decided to keep it?...You don’t return the umbrella, I sue”. So Le Call got pissy right back. “I gave it to Nat Rothschild’s driver to give back,” she e-mailed, and “…I don’t want to see, hear, or think about that stupid umbrella again.” Famous last words, because when the driver finally returned the umbrella the shaft had been snapped in half and glued back together. Miss Le Call confessed later “somebody” had sat on it – Obviously somebody with a bone density greater than the umbrella’s. Now Nello is suing Le Call for the $1,000 and for infliction of mental distress, willful destruction of property and “…disinterested malevolence”, whatever the hell that is. Le Call is now calling the umbrella overpriced and ostentatious, which sounds like a fair description of both of them. It sounds to me as if they are both carna-sexuals as well.
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Which would make 24 year old Sara Carmen a “selfual-sexual”, since she claims to suffer (if that is the right adjective) from “Permanent Sexual Arousal Syndrome”, or PSAS. It almost sounds like a made-up condition, like something a tabloid newspaper would invent to sell papers. But Sara says the condition was brought on after she was prescribed anti-depressants and “…in six months I was having 150 orgasms a day. It has been as many as 200.” She explains that “…anything can set me off. Even the hairdryers cause funny pulsations…” which is troublesome because Sara is a beautician, and I assume by “funny pulsations” she does not mean ‘funny’ as in “ha,ha”. “My friends think its great. I have more orgasms in one day than most of them will probably have in a year…some days I have one every ten minutes.” Okay, now she’s just bragging. And after what the London Daily Mail claims was a 40 minute interview, (during which Sara laid claim to six more orgasms) Sara switched from her tale of woe about lost boyfriends (they couldn’t keep up with her) to confused co-workers (they don’t really understand) to what does she tell her parents (nothing), to a final note of optimism. “…it came from nowhere and I guess it could go away just as quickly, so I’m making the most of it while it lasts.” Hmmm, I wonder just what she means by that? How do you ‘make the most’ of an orgasm every ten minutes? What do you do, sell rides?
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And what do you do when a policewoman shows up in your drama class and slaps on the handcuffs? You do what ever she tells you to do, of course. After the officer checked the boy’s i.d. and discovered it was his 16th birthday, he might have expected some deferential treatment. Instead she ordered him to crawl around the classroom on all fours. Then the officer put on a tape of Britney Spears’ music and spanked the boy 16 times. Then she stripped down to her bra and panties, smeared herself with cream and invited the birthday boy to rub it in on her bare fanny. It was at this point (and not before) that the teacher, who had been video-taping the festivities at the request of the boy’s mother, suggested that the “joke” had gone on long enough. The humiliated boy ran out of the room and Officer Stripper calmly packed her kit and left the scene of the crime. But was it a crime? The Arnold Hill School and Technology College in Nottingham, England, where this all took place, is trying to decide if the Mother’s explanation that she had booked a guy in a gorilla suit and not a stripper, is believable or even relevant. And the local government, the Nottinghamshire County Council is trying to decide if there is some way to scare up some votes in this headline grabbing event. And the boy is probably trying to figure out how he can ever show his face in school again, and if he will ever again be able to get a hard on while watching a Britney Spears music video.
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But, hey, kid; we’re all wondering that these days.

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