Britney's Boswell

Let’s face it, Brit. You’re not as hot as you used to be. Your marital problems generate bigger headlines than your concert tours. The 55-hour nuptials and this “FedEx” divorce are national punch lines.

But I write this as a friend, not a critic, despite the fact I am completely unfamiliar with your music (though I did come up with some particularly vile alternative lyrics to “Oops!...I Did It Again” when I had too much to drink at a baby shower).

Though it was you who filed divorce papers, it’s just a matter of time before K-Fed strikes back in the press. He's already asking for custody of the kids. You have to nail him, fast. And I know how.

Let me write your memoir.

“Help write” your memoir, I mean. I don’t mean this “Britney Spears’ Heart to Heart” stuff that you wrote with your mother. Or any of that autobiographical, pre-packaged paperback pabulum that you “wrote.”

No, I want to help write a hard-hitting, brutally honest work that will flatter the memoirist’s art. To wit:

When I first met Kevin, he was a dancer doubling as a pizza delivery driver. But I am not one to dwell on looks or status. I immediately saw that despite appearances, a talented, wonderful, tender, sensitive, strong man stood before me. Even though he was seriously lacking in the “manhood” department.

Now that’s great writing, my midriff-baring friend!


Follow in Bill's footsteps

There are many angles you have to consider. FedEx is going to toast you for that little problem with “Driving Miss Baby.” Britney, I beg of you, get this book out now so you can tell your side of the story:

Kevin was pleading for a fix. “Please, you have to give up the drugs and place your trust in Christ,” I pleaded, but he was holding Sean hostage with a stapler. I had to run out fast and barrel past the paparazzi in the driveway. That’s why you saw all those unfortunate pictures of me with baby Jayden in the car, when it looked like I was using the little bundle of joy as an airbag.

And what about this:

The men in his wedding party wore track suits that said “Pimps” on them. We handed out wedding gift bags that had jeans and candy. Then he had the idea about calling himself K-Fed, even though I warned him it sounded like the name of a prison—or a dog food! And then he released that video of me totally sounding stoned, and then the sex video thing!

All of this was Kevin’s idea!

You see how your side of the story gets fair play? You’re not going to get that in the Inquirer, I promise you that!

I must admit there is a personal agenda on my part. People don’t think writers are worth more than a pile of used pooper scoopers. That we don’t really have a place in the world other than in entertainment or journalism, professions with little public esteem. But I want to change things, starting with you.

If you had advisors who were worth a damn, you would have filed your divorce papers concurrent with the release of your autobiography—it’s kind of like Noveltainment! Your real-life woes would be packaged with your real-life book sales! And you get the upper hand in the publicity department, to boot!

The greatest thing about writing your memoirs—hold on to your piercings—is that they don’t have to be true. You can “stretch” things, like Our Friend James Frey, just adding little details so that things are “truer” than they were before.


Addicted to Brit!

Take, for example, the following:

I had heard all about Christina Skankuilera—that’s her real name, by the way—so I invited her to church to meet her. While I wore my Sunday best, she was just wearing a butt-floss thong and no top. Needless to say, she was never invited back to church!

I mean, this isn’t true, in the sense it didn’t really happen. But since it illustrates a larger truth about her, and she can’t prove she doesn’t wear butt-floss (take a look at her videos!), there’s no harm.

You’ll be able to resurrect your entertainment career with one fell stroke. You’ll sell a million books, and be able to redeem yourself in your fans’ eyes.

The capper? I’ll only take 25 percent off the top of your advance and royalties. Consider it a discount from a friend who is looking out for your best interests, one who isn't concerned with his amoral, greedy self, just like Col. Tom Parker was with Elvis, except I'm not a Dutch nutjob gambling addict like Col. Tom (and not Elvis, who handled fame and fortune with perfect grace and proportion—just like you).