Every time we look up (approximately twice a week) Kevin Federline is making another savvy maneuver in his quest to secure custody of he and Britney Spears' children. His latest move was to subpoena a worker from the Promises rehab clinic, where Spears spent two weeks ranting about the evils of her hair and people touching it. Britney's latest move meanwhile was to have well publicized, anonymous sex with a college student in a hot tub. Granted, we're pretty certain a starving grizzly bear could sue Spears for custody, dunk the children in barbeque sauce instead of making a closing statement and still take them home. But we do have to admit: K Fed isn't totally fucking this up. Or his lawyers aren't. Either way, we haven't been this wrong about who was the brains behind a doomed partnership since we got a perm the day before Art Garfunkel's first solo album dropped.
How did these hyper-specific tropes spread so quickly?
The Hollywood rumor mill has been playing games with celebrity deaths for at least a century.
It's easy to work the system and win these awards even if you don't deserve them.