There’s more than Voodoo down here on the Bayou.

One year ago, in June of 2005, the residents of Tangipahoa Parish were locked in a heated debate about whether the local school board was unleashing Armageddon on the world.

It was big news here in Louisiana. At issue was a fancy-schmancy biometric fingerprint system that would scan students’ index fingers in the school cafeteria, thereby debiting money from their lunch accounts.

More than a few concerned citizens argued that the system was placing the mark of the beast on their little darlings, even though in reality it was more like that palm-scan thing in Logan’s Run — with tater tots instead of death by laser beam.

Oddly enough, the name Britney Spears never entered the damnation conversation.

This ordinarily wouldn’t be a big deal except (a) she’s from the area, having been spawned in Kentwood, one of the Parish’s larger burgs; and (b) she’s an amalgam of End-Time events. Easily, Britney is a heady combination of Babylon the Great and the Pit of Eternal Fire — equal parts smoldering sex appeal and messy public meltdown. I don’t know how you can discuss the Apocalypse without at least mentioning her in a footnote.

But Brit-Brit’s not all bad. Case in point: her recent Dateline grilling by the newly footloose and Couric-free Matt Lauer.

Video montages frame the interview. We see a full spectrum of Britneys: Bright-eyed Britney from the Mickey Mouse Club. Blossoming Britney from her “One More Time” era. Sultry Britney, all dressed up and freshly blondined for swanky photo shoots. In fact, we see so many images of Good Britney that it’s hard to reconcile them with the thoroughly preggo dollar-store tramp sitting knee to chubby knee with Matt.

We’re distracted by … so many things. Her poorly bleached, over-stressed, unkempt hair. The inch-thick mascara courtesy of Sherwin Williams. The wad of gum the size of a chicken leg bopping around the constantly chewing mouth. A mind-boggling sleeveless blouse that’s half burlap sack, half sausage casing.

Most of all, there’s the denim miniskirt so short it looks like a G-string beneath her maternal girth — with, of course, flip-flops. Presumably Britney thought going barefoot might be a shade too casual. Though to be fair, Matt’s own choice of going sockless with loafers merits a couple of sucker punches from Mr. Blackwell too.

So there she is, looking for all the world like a younger, trashier Anna Nicole Smith. So what does Matty do? He calls her on it. How did you slide, he wants to know. How did you destruct from Sweet Southern Belle to Trailer Park Redneck?

At which point, Britney does something kind of surprising. She answers him.

Not bitterly, not defensively, but calmly and honestly. It may be an act, it may be thoroughly rehearsed but when she replies that redneck and white trash are just words — “And if that’s what you wanna say, then, you know, okay” — you can’t help but root for her.

To me, that’s her moment of grace. A brief, shining flash of redemption that allows us to forget the countless images of Britney where she seems to be a cockgobbling exhibitionist, married to what looks like a backup dancer-cum-meth freak. We forget for a moment those terrible, what-was-she-thinking snapshots that litter the pages of US WEEKLY.

Maybe she’ll have more moments like that — I kinda hope she does. Given her current death-shame spiral, though, I’m not holding my breath.

Oh, and as for the Tangipahoa Parish School System, I have no idea how it all turned out. I’ve been too distracted by Britney’s own personal Armageddon to give a damn about the mark of the beast.