Cruising in an LAPD cruiser on a warm SoCal night, heading toward Britney Spears' mansion with Sargeant Jackson at my side and two union cameramen trailing behind. Why the hell did we agree to film an episode of COPS? And why the hell are they still making that show in the 2020's, with the next "mostly peaceful protest" just one "viral" video clip away?
"So we got a concerned phone call from Britney's father, because she's been acting a little . . . erratic lately," I say toward the camera, trying to sound like a cool witty CBS-style detective.
"A
little
erratic?" Jackson snickers. "That bitch was dancing with butcher knives in a tiny bikini, like a fucking circus freak."
"Watch your language, Jackson."
"We can swear all we fucking want, McDavid. COPS is on a premium streaming site now."
"Anyway, the Princess of Pop is going off the deep end, so we're going to her mansion to do a welfare check."
"We're gonna 'check her out' and see if she needs some service. I mean, some help."
"Yeah, we're used to these mental health runs. Los Angeles has the most nutjobs per capita of any city in the world."
"By far."
We pull up to Britney's lavish mansion and strut away from the cruiser like old-school 1970's cops. Doug and Dave trail behind with two UHD cameras. (It would be so cool if they added a funky
Shaft-
style instrumental here in post-production.)
"We're pretty damn lucky to get the celebrity beat, instead of Junkyville and Bumtown," I remark. A high-end security camera stares down at us as Jackson rings the doorbell. Britney's iconic sexy semi-Cajun accent crackles through an overhead speaker.
"Hey there, officers. What seems to be the problem?"
"Well, Miss Spears, your father is really concerned about that 'Bladerunner' video you made yesterday, and some other strange stunts you've been pulling lately. We're here to do a welfare check."
"Damn, I can't get that guy off my ass. All right, come on in," she mutters. She opens the door, and our jaws drop open in shock. That hot forty-something peroxide blonde is wearing an even skimpier pink bikini than one she wore in that viral video. Bordering on a public indecency charge.
"Damn, girl, you are looking
fiiine,
" my partner blurts out. "Forty is the new sexy."
Britney giggles sweetly.
"Keep it professional, Jackson," I warn.
"Hey, what are those camera guys doing here?" she asks suspiciously. "Is this some kinda joke?"
"No joke, Miss Spears. We're real cops, and you're
on
COPS."
"Oh my god, I love that show!
Bad boys, bad boys, whatcha gonna do? Whatcha gonna do when they come for you?"
she sings without autotune, wiggling her amazing ass.
"God, I hate that stupid song," I groan.
"Is everything okay, Britney?" Jackson asks. "Dancing with butcher knives in a porn star bikini is not the kind of thing a sane person would do."
"I'm certifiably sane, officers. I was just copying one of Shakira's dance numbers."
"Shakira, eh?"
"Hell yeah.
I'm on tonight / you know my hips don't lie (no fighting) and I'm starting to feel you, boy!
" she sings like that milf latina pop star, gyrating her hips hypnotically.
"I'm feelin' ya too, Britney. Your hips sure
don't
lie."
"Shut up, Jackson," I grunt, elbowing his ribs. "I'm not convinced, Miss Spears. You seem rather . . . off-kilter to me."
"Off-
kilter?
Whatever gave you that idea?"
"About a hundred different things, ever since '99. Like that time you shaved your head, and kissed Madonna at the Grammy Awards, and danced with a live python at your concert, and kissed Rihanna at the Billboard Music Awards, and whacked a reporter with an umbrella, and married some guy in Vegas, then divorced him two days later."
"Not to mention that time you flashed your pussy to the paparazzi."
"They say I'm crazy / I don't really care / that's my prerogative,"
Britney sings like Bobby Brown. I sigh wearily, and so does Sergeant Jackson. This fake blonde bitch has gone bananas.
"You're cute, honey," Britney says to me, tossing her shiny peroxide bangs and tilting her head flirtatiously. "Can I hold your club?"
Whoa, she's getting crazier by the minute . . . and I'm getting hornier by the minute. "Uh . . . okay. But we call them 'nightsticks.'"
I pull a defensive aluminum baton off my utility belt and give it to Britney. She strokes it like a giant dildo.
"Ooh yeah, this is a nice long stick. So smooth and shiny. Lemme see
your
nightstick, Sergeant Jackson."
Jackson glances at the cameramen behind him with a bewildered expression, breaking the fourth wall like Jim Halpert on
The Office.
He pulls out his baton and gives it to her with a sly grin.
"Oh shit,
two
big black rods," she murmurs seductively. "I'm gonna make another viral dance video for COPS. Live from coast to coast, in living color."
"COPS has never been a live show, Britney," I reply, trying hard not to laugh.
"Really? Wow. I guess that makes sense, in case you guys get shot or something."
Britney grabs a smart phone, plays a Ed Sheeran song, and prances around with our nightsticks. Just like yesterday, when she shocked her vapid Instagram followers with that 'slutty butcher' dance. The same clueless followers who demanded she be "liberated" from a conservatorship with her "domineering" father. Now she's off her meds and off her rocker.
She rubs our sticks all over her slender body while grinding her ass like a stripper, and singing along with Eddie.
"Oooh, I love it when you do it like that / and when you're close up / give me the shivers . . ."
Doug and Dave circle around, getting some great UHD shots of her shiny scantily-clad body. She slides Jackson's stick between her legs, thrusting her pelvis back and forth, frotting that rod like Harry Potter's magic broom.
"Holy shit," Jackson chortles. "Is this really happening, bro?"
"Don't pinch me out of this dream."
The song winds to a close, and Britney finishes with a flourish, twirling around like a ballerina with those black clubs pointing straight outward. Like a cop copter.
"What do you think, boys? Was that a buzzworthy performance?"
You got me 'buzzing' alright," I blurt out.
"Well,
that's
pretty obvious," she giggles, pointing a nightstick toward my crotch. We realize that our dicks got hard while she was dancing. Pushing our navy blue police pants to the limit.
"Oh my god. I can't believe I got a boner on a fucking COPS episode," Jackson groans.
"I give guys lots of guys boners, everywhere I go."
Britney steps closer and wraps our sticks around our backs. Oh my
god.
"Uh . . . what are you doing, Miss Spears?" I croak awkwardly.
"I got
another