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Newly untethered pop strumpet Britney Spears has been easing her way back into Hollywood's daunting singles scene with none other than its queen ant, Paris Hilton, as her personal guide and mentor. After securely duct taping both of her children to a nursery room wall, Spears and Hilton hit the clubs for a weekend of debauched, mutually beneficial publicity at local, ultraexclusive celebriwhore broom closet Hyde. It was there that paparazzi caught Spears demonstrating her aptitude for such high-difficulty skank maneuvers as the Range Rover cigarette toss, while wisely choosing to ditch her white pompommed golf cap look for a decidely sluttier ensemble that all but seemed to scream, "Look at me, everyone! I have no panties, no visible genitalia, and, most of all, no regrets!" It should come as no surprise that Spears is such a quick study, however, particularly to anyone who has seen her junior high book report on Antigone, currently on the Christie's auction block. It's a near letter-perfect (she has some minor trouble with a sentence that begins, "Their was a roomer...") retelling of the Greek tragedy, ironically the story of a misunderstood and tortured girl, leery of undergarments and slavishly devoted to her family, who meets an untimely death after falling off the table upon which she was dancing to "Stars Are Blind."