Gimme Gimme More

Sometimes, something happens to you, and it's so bad, you can't even really process it yet. It could take days to realize what has occurred; weeks to understand the implications; years to finally talk about it.

I am breaking the silence.

I went to the Britney Spears concert on Thursday.

In a party bus.

With 17 sorority girls from Pi Beta Phi.

Seriously.

Did you know that party buses have built-in stripper poles?
Well, they do.

Having never been in prolonged contact with sorority girls, I learned a number of things pretty quick. Among these knowledge nuggets:

1) I should have been in a sorority.

2) Sorority girls dance like Iowa truck-stop teenage hookers.

3) My "eyes are really pretty, like so blue, but they would look a lot better, like stand out more" if I went tanning.

4) Everyone can identify with the words to Beyonce's "Single Ladies."

It took two hours to drive to the Tacoma Dome. I was loving the novelty - 17 girls grinding on each other, wasted on Grey Goose! 17 girls competing to see who could do the best dance on the pole while we were stuck in traffic! 17 girls dressed in various stages of Britney's career - naughty schoolgirl to current fuck-up! It was all so new.

And then the coup de grace: Britney!

Without question, the worst concert I have ever been to. I was sitting next to the faggiest boy in Seattle, and spent most of the concert watching to see his body go 'splat' if he hurled himself over the railing in his excitement.
Britney spent the majority of her stage time getting picked up and moved by her troop of male slaves. I played "Spot the Prostitot" and "Find Anybody Black" until the lip-syncing ended.

This post has nothing to do with lesbians.

I think the scent of 10,000 straight girls wearing Bath & Body Works' "Country Apple" scared my gaydar shitless and sent it into hiding.

Maybe when I recover, we'll talk dykes.