Photo by ShutterbugNancy via Flickr.

Britney, I was wrong. Like so many, I rushed to harshness in judging your “comeback” performance at the VMAs. But after a sleepless, guilt-ridden night I choked on my morning oatmeal watching the media carve you up like a honey-baked Easter ham. “Lard and Clear Loser,” crowed the New York Post. Tsk tsk.

(Personally, I think viewers and critics overlooked how the song’s dreamy yearning fully informed your performance - a personal journey that begins shrouded in hesitancy and ends enveloped in sexual discovery. Or…not.)

At the end of the day, Britney, you’re just a single mom and a struggling artist. A squirrel looking for a nut, a bag of Cheetos and a Venti Caramel Frappuccino in this crazy old world. Having been misled by a conniving coterie that would have made Louis XIV’s Versailles jade with envy, you need not just a do-over but a doing like no other.

Britney, if I could turn myself into a man I would give you the sweet, sweet loving that you so richly deserve. Sure, any beer-swilling yahoo would sell his nine-year old nephew to Michael Jackson if it meant a chance to “tap that ass”. But only a female celebrity who can alter her very own molecular composition can provide you with a historic night of comfort and passion.

This is how it would go down. After a quiet walk on the beach to work up our appetite, we order in some Sri Lankan and rinse away the cares of the day with the tender, trenchant vulgarity of a Judd Apatow flick. Having tucked away a few bottles of Opus One, and having tucked your sons into their beds, I lead you up to an oasis of love.