n o w p l a y i n g - s c r i p t b i n - f a n c l u b - s t u d i o

make love to the camera



Sept 20 2000 - 12:53 pm

The Future: 2004

She woke suddenly, sitting up with a start, the way it happens in the movies. The hacking cough began, and she stopped it the only way she knew how: by lighting a cigarette. Inhaling, the smoke clenched in her teeth, she heaved her 200 pounds plus frame from the bed and walked to the bathroom. Passing the mirror, she looked at herself, her form outlined by the soft light of the early afternoon. "Well, Britney," she thought. Surveying her massive girth and droopy pig-tails she sighed aloud. "You're not sixteen anymore, are you?"

1:14 pm, and she was already depressed. As she sat on the toilet, she recalled that she had had the dream again. In it, as always, she was onstage, performing 'Oops, I Did It Again.' She was writhing lustfully, making love to the audience as they screamed for her. It was bliss. But slowly, everything started to slow down, as happens in dreams. The sound started to fade as well, as if the hand of God was dialing down the volume knob. Helpless and paralyzed before her audience, unable to lip-sync a sound, fear washed over her.

Suddenly, a familiar face: Justin Timberlake! Salvation. However, it was not to be. He looked down on her, sadly. He then turned to the audience and yelled to the silent mass of people "Look at her! She's mall trash! She's terrible! She sucks, her music sucks, I suck! Christina sucks! Wrestling sucks! TRL sucks! You're all fucking doomed, you idiots!" Reaching into his far too baggy pants, Justin pulled out a pistol. In blowing his brains out, he blew out the brains too of American pop culture. Like the little boy and the dam in the old Dutch legend, he was the unlikely hero who single-handedly stemmed the flow of mass produced, mass marketed shit.

Britney was snapped back into reality by the ringing of the doorbell. She didn't even have to guess who it was; she already knew. Rolling her eyes, she walked through the squalid apartment to the front door, her feet absently kicking aside empty Dorito bags and McDonald's wrappers. "Hello, Marshall," she said resignedly, slightly opening the front door and walking away, not even bothering to look through the peep-hole. The door swung open, and in walked a pale, bald man, holding a gallon jug of cheap wine. "Brit, you know I don't like to be called that."

"Don't kid yourself, you moron," she said, plopping down onto a worn couch. "You're not Eminem anymore." She paused to light another cigarette with the one she had just finished. She looked him in the eye. "You melted."

They shared the wine, drinking from dirty plastic cups. Marshall launched into the same speech he made every day. It usually went like this: What happened to us? Our careers? Our audience? We can make a comeback. We can do it. I've got an idea. I'll call Dr. Dre. He'll know what to do. Come on, Brit, what do you say?

This was a new one. Dr. Dre. Yeah, he's gonna help. No way in hell he was going to take time off from his investment banking to take on a couple of hard luck cases. Nope, it was over.

She was annoyed, listening to his futile silliness. But, he did always bring wine. The more he said, the more she thought about days gone by. The thought of her once adoring fans, now moved on to better things turned her spite to depression, and, as she remembered her performances, she felt a need. A need to be loved, not by any man in particular, but just to be loved by anyone. Suddenly, Britney interrupted his insane ramblings, saying softly "Make love to me, Marshall Mathers." He stopped talking, surprised, and for a moment, just a tiny moment, a glint of that old Eminem spark was reborn in his eyes, and he quietly replied with a smile "I'll fuck you, bitch."

It was happier than Britney had been in a long time.

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