Bristol Palin should not marry Levi Johnston

Bristol, Bristol, Bristol. The story of your charmed teenage years could have been taken right off the cover of a dog-eared Sweet Valley High paperback. You met a guy you liked, you had unprotected sex because condoms make Jesus cry, your mother forced you and your swollen belly to make an appearance at the RNC, and then your baby daddy abandoned you, trashed your family ^[1] in Vanity Fair, and came crawling back with a diamond ring and five pounds of freshly-killed moose meat. I mean, really, what little girl hasn’t dreamt of a future like that? I get it, honey, you fell in love with the dream. And now I’m going to wake you up. Come crawl into Auntie Meg’s lap, Bristol Palin; it’s time for some tough love.

Bristol, dear, this marriage cannot happen. I know you have visions of white picket fences dancing in your pretty little head but, when your Save the Date cards are printed on the cover of Us Weekly ^[2], your marriage is off to a bad start. Your fiance posed for Playgirl and went on a date with Kathy Griffin — do you really think Levi Johnston is a catch? Does this dude even have a job, besides shilling for pistachios ^[3]? Suffice it to say, Bristol, it is not a nice day for a white trash wedding.

I might have been able to get on board with this engagement — it’s for your son, after all, and absolutely not because you’re regretting having promised, in front of God and Oprah Winfrey, that you would remain celibate ^[4] until marriage — if not for Levi’s latest Palin-baiting stunt. According to his attorney (he has an attorney, Bristol), the talented Mr. Johnston intends to act in a music video ^[5] in which he plays a young lovah dealing with the ultimate drag: his girlfriend’s meddling, disapproving mother. That’s cold, Bristol. That’s colder than the salmon-rich Alaskan bay after which you were named.

I know that you’re scared and panicked but I have a plan: Girl, you need to run. Get away from Levi and get away from that crazy mom of yours. Sneak out in the middle of the night if you must. Bundle your little papoose in some pelts, hijack a team of sled dogs, and make like Cuba Gooding, Jr. Travel east until you find an oldey-timey Connecticut town and offer your services as a chamber maid in the quaint local bed and breakfast. Sure, your new life may not be as glamorous as you envisioned but, with hard work and that trademark spunk of yours, someday you’re going to run that B&B, send your daughter to Yale, and marry the proprietor of the local greasy spoon. Then, we’ll sell the rights to your story to the WB and I’ll only require 30% of your signing fee as well as a very small cut of the advertising revenues. No, no, Bristol; don’t offer me any of the syndication rights because I simply won’t take them! The pleasure of watching your life as told through a snappy, family-oriented dramedy will be payment enough.

Let’s face it: Some celebrities could use good advice. Meg Boyle gives it to them every Tuesday.