The tough thing about love is that it makes you do stupid shit. It makes lumberjacks write poetry, and brass-balls CEOs hurl pebbles at windows. We create terrible works of fiction trying to capture the uncapturable. We snap photographs in a futile attempt to pin down the swell of emotion, to freeze in time what we know most likely will not last. And the inevitable fights come; the tears; the angry words; the division of possessions; the parting of ways. And we move on, as humans do, suffering through it all again, often eagerly. And the old becomes part of the tapestry that forms how we love. And baggage is accumulated, hang-ups multiply, patterns evolve. But we attempt to start anew and we box up those terrible poems and the embarrassing photographs. We recount the mush and the now-broken promises with a shudder, with a cringe, with a fear that if that didn't work, how can this? But for most of us, those memories fade and get less potent, and we do soldier on. And sometimes, some of us, we triumph. And why? How are we able to do that? Well, because we didn't record that doomed relationship and sell it to UPN to turn into a fucking reality show. Jesus, it's bad enough for our friends with divorced parents to have to see photos of their folks in happier times. Or even for us with married parents to hear the squicky details of their courtship; to imagine them functioning as lovers with heat and passion and need. All I can say is, good luck, Li'l Cheetus. You're going to fucking need it, boy-o.
My TiVo had the good sense to pop on in the middle of the little intro. Quick shots of the couple as K-Fed and BritBrit babble about love and "truth is..." K-Fed toasts us with some Courvoisier. Klassy. BritBrit dances. And then…Jesus H. K-Fed and BritBrit make out, in a close shot. Like, really close. Like, nose to chins. BritBrit's wooden, leathery, Seal/Otis Nixon skin mooshing up next to the vagina beard of K-Fed. Their doubled, tangled co-breath smelling of sex and Cheetos, Miller Lite, Skoal Vanilla, and chewed-up unpaid child support bills. BritBrit camera-talks about her ideal guy. K-Fed's cobra face stares down into the camera, high as Bob Marley during cancer surgery, saying, "I care about you. If you ever watch this tape, I care." Wow. Slap that shit onto a Hallmark card, yo, because that shit is hella romantical. "This is my journey," she says. Night vision shots of BritBrit. BritBrit smokes and says, "I'm real. I'm just going to tell you how it is." The best invention of MTV docs and reality shows is the need stars have now to constantly proclaim their "realness," which is, as we know but they are often too stupid to, a blatant admission that they're faker than Jamie Lee Curtis's vagina pouch. Real things do not need to tell us that they're real. Stoned K-Fed lies on a couch talking to the air about how "you're scared to love me and that makes me scared to love you." BritBrit does a camera-take. "Our journey," they both voice-over. Quick shots. Blah blah blah. "The sex," he says. "The kisses are really good. The sex is really good." Another gross kiss. BritBrit puts make-up on her whore eyes. Shots. Shots. Too fast. Too stupid. BritBrit boxes. She smokes. Credits.
Lord. BritBrit dances. Sticks her tongue out. More shots. BritBrit's new song "Chaotic" plays. Graphic tells us that the cinematography is by BritBrit and K-Fed. Great -- grab the Dramamine. More footage. Produced by them. Okay, we get it. You're triple threats. You're Kings of all Media. Got it. More shots. Picking flowers. Britney slides on a table. Kissing. Grossness. BritBrit's Pro-Tooled-into-a-digital-soup-as-usual voice sings, "Do you like the way I rock it? Boy, it's cha-o-tic." That rhyme isn't awkward at all.