Pitch To Me!!!

Review: "Toxic" by Britney Spears
Score: 3.8

PJ and I roared down the highway, the top down and the radio blaring. Our destination? Hedonism. Our ticket to exhiliration? Nestled in the trunk. As soon as we reached Atlantic City, we'd pull out my dead father's wrinkled brown suitcase and get the party started. Our personal pharmacy included forty tabs of acid, a garbage bag full of weed, a detergent bottle full of yayo, a camel back of rubbing alcohol and an IV tube full of heroin. I was most worried about the acid; there is nothing worse than walking into a stop sign while high on that shit.

Before we proceed, I feel like I should introduce my associate, PJ, or Pyjama to his mother. He looks like what would happen if Tony Soprano and Jerry Garcia decided to mate. His father is a stockbroker, his mother an interior decorator when she is not picking up after his three siblings. They were "too busy" to be hippies during the 70's, and they were too old and occupied with family to participate in the drug-laced orgy that was the 80's. Nevertheless, they opted to name their child Pyjama Michael Jenkins.

He hates his parents.

The car is a rental. PJ is twenty-five, so he took care of that. Ironically, he refuses to drive, but can easily waste hours of your time explaining how sleeping in a Toyota can "give you a total respect for Asian philosophy, man." I have tried to elucidate precisely why he steadfastly resists the act of driving. Maybe he likes to think of me as his chauffeur, but more likely he just consumes too much acid. Who can focus on the road when you're busy trying to taste the yellow Ford Excursion cruising alongside you?

The DJ spits a series of tired and overused catchphrases, and before you know it, Britney Spears' ear-shattering soprano is polluting the air. PJ turns to me and murmurs something unintelligible. I turn down the radio and ask him to repeat himself:

"Dude, I'll bet she smokes."
"What?"
"You know. She smokes weed."
"You're an idiot."

He rolled his eyes and swore at me under his breath. I turned the radio back up, allowing the inane ramblings of America's Prepubescent Pop Idol to complement the keen, desperate howl of the wind. Suddenly, on my right, a bright yellow sign announced a sharp bend in the road.

Yellow - the color of danger and Marilyn Monroe's hair. I decided to ease the car through the turn. My foot slowly pressed down on the brake. Nothing happened. Slightly worried, I pushed harder. Still nothing. Panicking, I tried turning the car into a nearby edge. No response. The steering was shot as well. The bend was coming into view. In the distance, there was nothing. We were going off a cliff.

We burst through the barrier like a rocket off Cape Canaveral. For a moment, it felt like we were floating, as if we could drift slowly to safety. Then the front of the car dipped forward, and we saw the valley below. PJ shrieked; my pants felt moist. Gradually, the world rose to meet us, and still Britney's voice could be heard, an essential element in the grand comedy that our trip to Atlantic City had become.

Suddenly, it hit me. I do not have a friend named PJ, and I do not do heroin. Could this all be in my mind?

Turns out it was. Also, Britney sucks. Tune in next week when I describe my many sexual conquests and, coincidentally, review Justin Timberlake's "Rock Your Body". It will be awesome.

Listening to: Imagine - Dizzee Rascal