Well, you won. You did it. Back when it was you and Britney reigning supreme over the subpar versions of yourselves, it was kind of a draw. She played her hand, her cheerleader body and Southern charm slowly morphing into an awakened, sweating sex kitten. You transitioned from a sweet party popster into a blatantly vulgar dick hound. You always had the voice, but never the simple charisma and moves of your pal from way back, when you were both denim-clad Mickey Mousers. How you must be laughing now, with your cute Jewish muffin of a husband, your big-selling album, your stylin' look obviously ripped from Marilyn Monroe—and not Dana Plato. Our solemn congratulations.
The victorious Christina Aguilera is a consummate performer, one of the few working large-scale entertainers who's really worth packing a limo with booze, energy drinks, junk food and your funnest girlfriends and gayest boyfriends to go see. Getting stupid drunk and screamy at a show like this is top balls (except for when the ballads come out. Boring). Aguilera's most recent persona and newest album (Back to Basics) are double-dipped in 1940s showgirl nostalgia—a bugle-boy, seamed-stockings sensibility that extends from the songs to the shades of red lipstick. This conscious return to modesty is so perfectly on-point and of the moment, and her rounds on the talk shows so exhaustingly fresh and fun, that she's making Britney look even more pathetic than she does already.