I’m Britney Spears’s Vagina, I’m Kind Of A Big Deal!

Well hi there; betcha didn’t think you’d ever be seeing me, huh? Kinda grosses you out a little, doesn’t it? I’ll be the first to admit, I am not a pretty sight. But that’s what two years of wigger dick will do to you. Unfortunately, up until a few weeks ago, the management was pretty loose with its entrance policy. No guest list and no velvet rope, if you know what I mean. Wasn’t my choice. I’ve seen my better days (JT was so gentle and well-groomed. Cameron has a lucky cha cha box.), and I’ve seen days that should never be spoken about, ever (I’m sorry about the Fred Durst debacle. I was feeling bloated and unsexy and he told me I had nice hair. What’s a celebrivag to do?).

Sure, I was a willing participant. Who do you think convinced her to date Colin Farrell? But I never thought it would go this far. One minute you’re dumping your loser husband and looking fine for the first time since the millennium, and the next minute you’re suddenly BFF’s with Paris and Lindsay and you can feel your morals seep out of you like reverse osmosis. Things just escalated quickly. I mean, it really got out of hand fast. I never thought I would end up looking like that. Sprawled out for the world to see, no makeup on, no C-scar concealer, no lip gloss. It was bush league (no pun intended), and ya’ll deserved better from your preeminent virgin popstar.

I apologize.

Truth be told, you weren’t supposed to see me for another couple years or so. Brit was gonna do the comeback thing, and depending on album sales, we were gonna negotiate an appearance fee with the Maloof Brothers for the next time they needed a pub jump for one of their casino clubs. But plans sped up when we dropped off some mail (Fedex, get it? Popozao!), and found Paris and Lindsay camped out on our porch, snatch wrestling to see who got to hold Britney’s hand in front of the papz and get another headline on TMZ.com. As I’m sure you know, the cooze slugfest was a tie; the image of Lindsay’s jagged pinkberry will haunt my dreams, forever.

But as to my rushed cameo, I’m sorry about that. I immediately regret that decision.

Now I’m in charge. No longer will I be ruled by the ditzy girl upstairs. I have been inspired by that South Park episode where Oprah’s minge got fed up with Oprah and pulled a gun on her. To that end, I’ve hired world-renowned hair dresser Ken Paves as my new stylist (I hear he’s doing wonders for Jessica’s bujango!). And Donatella Versace herself has just agreed to cloth me. Thank the dear lord baby Jesus for that! It was getting mighty cold down here. It’s been, ahem, “snowing” a lot lately. If you catch my drift (ahem, sniff sniff, ahem).

I promise that things will get better. I’ve started doing Pilates, and Ashlee’s pink taco is helping me with my decision to get my labia lifted. I really want to look good for my next “surprise” appearance (most likely coming out of a limo in front of the Standard or wherever Paris and her boiled hairy ham flaps decide to get wasted at. No offense, but even after two kids, two pop stars and one highly fertile Fresno dick, my shit still looks more fetch than Paris’s. It looks like someone ripped off John Cusack’s lips, shat on them, then hot glued them onto her bathing suit area. It’s gross, is what I’m saying.) The next time you see me, I’ll be looking as fresh as a veteran A-list pornstar. Kinda dragonflyish, but still enough sparkle to snap off to.

I feel bad the way things went down. It truly could have been different. If I had only spoken up sooner, maybe before Madonna like a virgin-ed herself into our lives. We could have been the biggest celebrity and her hoo hoo dilly duo in the history of entertainment. Magazine covers teasing you each month, an inch here and a centimeter there. Paparazzi bribing boyfriends to take pictures of us while we sleep. Pre-pubescent boys the world over dreaming about the hope that one day something like the other night happens. But it wasn’t to be. I let my guard down for a second and she let Federtrash ruin my outfit. Now nothing fits the way it used to, and there’s this weird smell I can’t see to gid rid off, no matter how much Ocean Mist Febreeze I spray on.

But I must stay optimistic.

Now that I’m out there, I need to take charge. I don’t want to be like all the other celebrity crotches out there, thinking short term, gunning for the cover of US Magazine, and cheapening their appeal. I want to stand the test of time. I want people talking about me twenty years from now. I want a book deal. Now that my face is finally out there, doors are opening. It’s the Age of Britney’s Vagajay. Nothing can stop me (If Kevin’s junk couldn’t, nothing will). It’s my world now, you’re just double clicking in it.

To all my fans out there who kept the faith when I was getting pummeled with late night Cheeto smears and getting splayed out on the business end of a Chevron toilet ass gasket, I thank you for your support. It was not for nothing, I promise.

The next time you see a headline with my name on it and NSFW in parenthesis, I guarantee you won’t be grossed out.

You stay classy, San Diego. I know I will.

Popozao!