What up, y'all!

It's me, your ol' Brit-Brit! I know how y'all like to see me drive around in my Mercedes-Benz G-Wagen and all, and I know how much you like to call it my P-Wagen, 'cause that joke just never gets old, now does it?. But as per my recent agreement with Lil' Brit -- that's what I call the real me, the one inside: Lil' Brit -- and to make my lawyers stop naggin' me about wills and jail and dependencies and dependents, I have decided to let my agent/boyfriend Jason Trawick get behind the wheel today. For real, y'all: I love it when he does that.

Don't you worry, though: I am still the same Brit-Brit you've come to love and stuff. I may be in the passenger's seat, but believe you me, beyotches, I will still show up to  awards ceremonies looking like I just fell out of a circus-themed bordello zeppelin. (Do they even make those? They totally should. Hell, I totally should.)

But y'all, I kinda love this guy. I know he's older and stuff, but he's cute, right? And he's way less messy (and meth-y) than that fatass backup loser formerly known as my husband. Who knows? If he turns out to be straight, we may even get married and have some more rugrats to spoil on our long weekend getaways to Branson.

In the meantime, y'all go on with your bitching and moaning about me. I know how y'all just love to talk about the way I play with the madonna/whore binary, and I appreciate the compliment, but really, just between us, I freely admit that I'm less concerned with postmodern constructs of femininity and dominance than I am with good scotch and Cheetos.

[As seen at SocialiteLife]