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In This Issue

• Facebook News Feed Charts Relationship's Ups, Downs, Wrongs
• Dr. Doom Next CU GOP Speaker
• Old Dogs, New SAT Rubrics
• Columbia U. Celebrates Halloween
• Cooch Drinks Hootch, Scootches
• A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Meanness
• Interviewing Marauder
• Escalators: Now at Your Local CIA Black Site
• Celebrity Trading Cards
• Real Parties for Which You're Not Voting
• Sound Advice for Celebrity-Starved Democrats
• A New PAC a Day Keeps the Devil Away
• Tables Turn on Foley's Accuser
• Five Senate Races to Watch
• Santorum v. Santorum
• Ten Things Not to Call an Opponent’s Campaign Staffer
• Forbidden Love
• Socialism Creeping
• CU Football Confesses Famous Losing Streak “Never Actually Ended”
• AVG
• The Fed Caption Contest
• Superman!
• Would You Know My Name If I Saw You in Prison?
• THEY Watch

Dear Britney,

I know we haven't talked in a while, so this is a little awkward. But that's all the more reason why I should be writing this letter. Lately things have been a bit strained between us. Back in the day, it was all I could do to sort out Justin from Jay Leno. Each time you pressed me up against some B-list boner on the dance floor, I knew you'd make it happen. My hair was so soft then-what was it your vagina stylist used? It doesn't matter, I'll never see moisturizer again. Once upon a time, we kept it real... working out together, stretching and relaxing, taking in the occasional chick flick, sharing nachos and twinkies.... One might even say we were tight. Between the two of us, there was no one we couldn't do. Remember when Justin couldn't decide who he liked better and you got all jealous? Looking back now, it all just seems so silly.

But now I've got some serious roast beef with you. Big K was an OK guy at first-I mean, I've always liked your backup dancers, they're good kids, and limber-but to get knocked up by that Vanilla Ice wannabe with overly geometric facial hair? That's not cool, Brit. Bros before hos.

The second that parasitic little fetus started growing above me, I freaked. The days of doing coke off male strippers' asses so we could stay up late watching Celebrity Makeover-were they over? Would I ever again know the joy of being licked by Bob "Guilty Pleasure" Saget? Most importantly, how much was it going to fucking hurt? I've been partying with you since the nineties, and then some ridiculously young hotshot (Elvis Priestly, or Sean Heston, or whatever the fuck his name was) comes along and you forget all about me? I would have given you an abortion in your sleep but the reality show cameras were watching. Twats before tots, Brit. Twats before motherfucking tots.

And do I even need to mention that Cheeze Whiz is not an acceptable substitute for Vagisil? It was cute for a while, like, "Pshaw, look at Brit! She's so funny with her white trash food!" but I assure you the ensuing infection was no joke. And don't even get me started on the Pepsi douche when you got that endorsement deal. "Method acting" is no excuse, so don't even try it. Do you even know what that means?

I've had enough of this shitty life. The nanny you pay slave wages to keep you from leaving Baby in the microwave gets better benefits than me. I'm telling you, I quit. I'm itchy, I'm tired, I'm poorly groomed, and my therapist will be happy to know I'm finally doing something about it. Don't bother trying to change my mind; I've wasted the best years of my life on you, but at least now I can start to pick up the pieces. I'll freelance for a while, maybe land a normal gig... I'm not sure who'll take me, but if all else fails, I hear Paris Hilton is due for a new vagina soon. Barring that... Anna Nicole Smith? Or maybe Ryan Seacrest? In any case, I know I'll land on my, um, labia majora.

Don't bother writing back, cause as soon as I mail this I'm getting a restraining order against you. Oh shit, I forgot-you can't read or write. Well, here's to the hours I wasted training these muscles to pick up a pen. Have fun performing your "wifely duties" without me. Maybe then you'll recognize the value of a good cunt.

             XOXO,

             Your (ex!) vagina.