Nov 15, 2006

Letter to Kevin Federline: How to Be Classier than Britney Spears

Dear Fed-Ex,

You don't mind if I call you that, buddy, do you? Thanks. Now listen up. You're fed up (pardon the pun) with Britney, you're not gonna take it anymore. She told you she wanted to divorce you via text message. Can't get much trashier than that, you're thinking, right? Trashy, yes, but brainless, not quite. Her strategically brilliant pre-nup means you get, um, the leftover baby food and little else. But you do have your good name, right? Or, well, your name, anyway. And your dignity. Er, in any event, there's only one way to fight back. Because after all, by your own words . . .

Today I’m a free man
Ladies look out
K. Federline
F--k a wife
Give me my kids

But frankly, Fed-Ex, there's not a jury in this world that would award you custody of the babies--unless you could somehow manage to get your hands on the one that let OJ Simpson go free. The point is, if you want to get your way, you're gonna have to learn how to outclass the Oops-I-Did-It-Again gal at her own game. You are going to have to be, um, less trashy than she is. While this does not at first glance seem difficult, given your penchant for speaking your mind in public, without any of the usual filters that most of us learn, in, oh, about third grade, we've got our work cut out for us.

Here's what I propose:
  1. Stop running your mouth in public. Hire a hot-shot personal attorney, and don't go anywhere without him or her. I mean anywhere. Do not say a word until he/she tells you to. Got that? And no more scribblings on shower doors, K? Keep all commentary to yourself.
  2. You know that steamy sex video of you and Britney taken on your honeymoon? Tempting to release it to the highest bidder, huh? Well, if you want to win in the long run, fergeddaboutit. Not releasing it—just referring to it—is the best tactic. You will drive up the price. You will tantalize. And most of all, you will be holier-than-thou for NOT taking it public (and thereby besmirching both of you). Keep it in your pocket for now.
  3. Speaking of keeping it in your pocket, here's point number three: keep it in your pants, too. I mean it. This isn't supposed to be easy, it's supposed to work. So no matter how much you want to backlash your way into the hearts and panties of all those lovely ladies lining up for you outside your shows (except for the ones you cancelled due to lack of interest, that is), just say no. Why? Because you will get more sympathy if you play the grieving, heart-broken one than the gleeful, vengeful one. Trust me, you'll get more and better if you just wait a while. Consider it your cooling off period.
  4. Go to the nearest major publishing house and get started working with a ghost writer on your tell-all memoir. (We all know this will have to be written by someone else. If you have any doubt about this, see the "prose stylings" of the note in the pic above. Just let a pro handle it, all right?) Insist on a juicy advance on this much-anticipated tell-all—believe me—you'll have them by the cojones—just name your asking price. Lots of folks would be interested in learning about the details of all the horrid things your former wife was capable of. Especially want to hear more about the riding in the car with baby in lap and no carseat thing. Be sure to detail how the baby got dropped too, with an emphasis on Britney's immaturity, trashiness, and inability to cope with motherhood (hey—I didn't say I'd be interested in this—just that other folks would). Meanwhile, continue to profess your total innocence, how much you care about the babies, how competent you are as a father, etc. etc. Trust your ghost writer and try not to embellish too much. Meanwhile, the money you get from the advance will sponsor your now quiet, simple lifestyle for the time being.
So that's it—just four pieces of advice that are sure to win friends and influence at least a few people anyway. Let Britney self-destruct (because it will happen). Let her gloat—you'll win in the end if you follow my advice.


Tumerica, or Dear Abby to the Classiness-challenged

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