Toxic

God has a pretty weird sense of humor. You want proof? I present to you... Britney Spears.

Britney lives in a Malibu palace with infinitely more money than sense and a beleagured staff that has to be wondering if Mexico really was all that bad. There used to be this guy in Citrus Heights who squatted in a fetid mound of his own feces and played John Philip Sousa marches on a rusty kazoo he'd insert in his tracheotomy nipple for spare change outside of the Circle K... well, I’m pretty sure Britney's staff would happily trade places with him.

I mean, this is the gir-- oh, I'm sorry, "woman" who only recently told an interviewer "Like omigod, I have to tell the maid to buy diapers and get the pool boy to walk the dog? Can't I just make out with Kevin all the time? Being married sucks."

This is the woman who supposedly spent a day in her dad's restaraunt kitchen recently, learning how to make the chili and smoothies. A source says she wants to work there twice a week during the summer and that she wants to design her own waitress uniform. Here's where things get crazy, though: that same source claims that Britney seemed more excited about what she was going to wear than learning about making the smoothies! What's that all about?

This is "not a girl, not yet a woman" with the profoundly-poor judgement to marry one of her less-talented dancers (oh, like you don't think Dre is way better than Kevin ever was) who, in turn, left her at her brother's apartment in Santa Monica recently and headed to Vegas with his buddies where he partied at club Pure in the company of a woman who called herself a "VIP Escort." A source (I'm pretty sure it's Hal Holbrook) says Kevin -"Dont' call me 'Mr. Spears' again, Dre"- Federline refused to answer Britney's phone calls all weekend and reportedly told his friends, "If I ever get a divorce, I want to move to Vegas."

But, to be fair, Britney has gotten pretty good at ordering her servants to update her website with poorly worded tirades against cholera epidemics and the tabloids. What she’s not quite as good at is hiding the fact that she isn't any more likely stop reading the damn things for more than twenty minutes than she is to roll off that lounge chair and fetch her own bottle of Penta™ Water. Honestly, look at what she’s wearing in the pic above, and then take a look at what she's wearing on the cover of the Star in the pic above, and then try to tell me that the Star didn't snap that picture, send it to press and have it plastered on that cover before she was able to roll off of that lounge chair. Helen Keller used to latch-hook pillow-covers with images of runny-eyed kittens playing in daffodil fields faster than that.

So... Britney's a ginormous celebrity, which is heinous and harder to swallow than... than... than something really, really hard to swallow. You think that's not proof enough of the Divine One's lighter side? No? Well then, try this on for size: Brit's preggers!

So... to recap: Britney Spears is quantifiable proof of God's existence.

But wait! There's more! We're taught that God resolutely refuses to prove his existence, for proof denies faith, right? So, proof denies faith; without faith God is nothing...

Britney Spears killed God!

Figures.