Attention students of America: I have an exciting new prospect for you. All that crap your parents gave you about applying yourself is useless now. A propitious career is on the horizon—one that promises even the most unimaginative, no-talent hack a comfortable and lavish lifestyle. I am talking about the exciting and challenging career of being Britney Spears’ song writer.

Despite the decade in which I grew up, I have never really been a Britney fan myself. Yes, I admit I enjoyed a song or two, succumbing to the pressures of being in the third grade in 1999, but that was the extent of it. Even so, I was intrigued by the mystery surrounding Britney’s new single “Womanizer.” I wasn’t expecting to team up with Chris Crocker for part two of “Leave Britney Alone!” on YouTube, but I was hoping for the possibility of some basic appreciation, however delayed it may have been. Maybe the new song would display a better, more talented Britney that I had never really gotten a chance to know. Maybe my socks would just be plain knocked off.

Then again, maybe not.

For those of you not privileged enough to have listened to such a melodic masterpiece, allow me to fill you in: I am totally confident that New Kids on the Block could collectively burp out a catchier song. It may be harsh, but let the lyrics speak for themselves: I would rather listen to “Hangin’ Tough” on repeat for three days straight than ever have to listen to “Womanizer” even once more.

Such lyrical gems include the chorus: “Womanizer, woman-womanizer, you’re a womanizer/ Oh womanizer, oh you’re a womanizer, baby/ You you you are, you you you are/Womanizer, womanizer, womanizer (womanizer).”

When I first listened to the song, I was sure that some sort of Spearsbot malfunction was taking place. I realize now how ridiculous I was being! Those songwriters were just being polite and making sure that we all understood exactly what Britney meant. We can’t be trusted to understand after just one “womanizer.” I personally require several hundred for the message to fully sink in.

On top of the song’s annoying nature, I can’t really get into Britney’s mock-girl power message. While she claims that the song is some manner of feminist songwriting, her music video, which features her writhing naked in some sort of sauna, delivers a slightly different message. Somehow, I don’t seem to recall Patti Smith stuffing herself into a leather crop top that looks as though it was borrowed from the friendly neighborhood prostitute.

I guess we can’t entirely blame Britney. After all, she didn’t concoct such a repetitive mess herself. In such an economic crisis, the thought of someone reaping any monetary benefit for writing this song makes me weep for the English teachers of the world. However, it similarly instills me with a sense of hope for my own writing future. Certainly if these people are making this much money for crafting such awful songs, perhaps every one of us possesses the talents necessary for an equally lucrative career!

When Britney’s nearing 50 and has undergone several more divorces, a few more public breakdowns and enough Botox to make even Joan Rivers cringe, I can team up with her for the “Hit Me Baby One Last Time: Britney’s Eighth and Final Farewell Tour (No, Really, We Mean It)” and make an absolute killing. Until then, I’ll just stick with my NKOTB tapes and heave a wistful sigh every time Joey McIntyre hits those high notes.