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She Drives Me Crazian

February 8th, 2008 | 0 comments | Posted by Diana

Some of you have shown some curiosity as to why there’s been a noticeable absence of Britney Spears discourse on DISGRASIAN of late, especially because her goings-on are so fucking ubiquitous and it’s rare for us to ignore ubiquity. The fact of the matter is that, like many of you, we’ve been well aware for quite some time that the girl is sick. Not sick and twisted, more like really, really sick, scared, crazy, and sad.

What’s going on with her doesn’t entertain or scare us. It does, however, bum us out. We feel a lot of empathy for people that are crazian, especially because we grew up knowing that people like our parents and aunts and uncles and grandparents would do anything in the world to avoid admitting that they, or anyone they know, were nuts (trust us, they were). Why? Because being out of control was scary.

Crazytown is a lonely place, and if you’re headed there, most people don’t want to take the trip with you–unless your name is Britney Spears, in which case, every paparazzo/bored teenager/housewife/Pat O’Brien wants you take them to…Crazytown…so they can photograph every messy step of your messy, crazy life, until you plop down dead in front of them.

That saga isn’t funny or interesting to us. Insanity is some serious shit, dude.

I happened to be thinking about just this when I saw Bai Ling last night. We were both on the “green carpet” for the Annual Peapod Foundation Benefit in Hollywood (don’t bother looking for me; I ditched my pals in front of the photographers to avoid looking like a tired, work-clothed handler labeled as “and guest” in any WireImage photos). Here she was, the Queen of Crazian in the flesh, and for the first time ever, I could observe her from up close and personal.

She was, as expected, sporting those idiotic band-aids on her stupid shins. And after making a few rounds of crazy faces for the snappers, she lingered at the end of the carpet to see if anyone wanted to chat. For about ten minutes, nobody made a bid. I would’ve, but I couldn’t let myself. She was too giddy, too awkward, too unholy–too CRAZIAN. All I could do was snarl.

Eventually, Crazy Bai found a reporter-type that was willing to talk to her, although I made a mental note that the reporter never wrote anything down or recorded a word she said. But I’m burying the headline: BAI WASN’T CRAZY AFTER ALL. She was talking like a normal person, with a slight accent, nothing about being an alien, or nipples, or what does it mean, dick?

Imagine my shock. My horror. Bai’s wackiness is a shtick, a put-on, nothing but an ACT!

Well, I will say this. Jen and I have little to no empathy for actors.

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