One final down! And lemme tell you, it did not go quietly into that good night. No, it did not.
Oh, and: Rob Sheffield's "Pop Life" column in the latest Rolling Stone was so tongue-in-cheek it gave me a mouth sore:
"Can the Brit-spawn be on the way? For months now, the world has been hoping, praying, lighting candles, saying novenas for an answer: What's up with Britney's uterus? But now, finally, the truth is out. The world awaits the birth of Tinky Bink Federline, the lucky celembryo currently bathing in Red Bull-scented amniotic fuid, gearing up for a historic swim through the world's most high-profile tract of vaginal real estate."
The new joke around my house was calling her "Fatty Spears" because the media was making such a big deal about her recent "weight gain" and how she "ballooned" up to a "whopping" "349340130" "pounds." """""""""""""""
Shit -- If I were preggers and sitting on millions of dollars, you can bet that large sums of my money would be making their way toward Frappucinos and Big Macs, too.
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