Wednesday, March 11, 2009

Here Doggie Doggie

You may have seen this recent article where the Umlaut has much to say on Father, myself, and her fucking dog. Needless to say, the Umlaut is incorrect on almost all accounts. It makes me wonder if that One Ring I forged is on the fritz.

Anyway, let me correct the record.

First, I am no one's stepson. Other than being my father's son, I belong to no one, especially someone who loudly claps at traffic lights when they change colors.

"Oohhh! It changed a color! Does that one mean never stop? How do it know?"

Secondly, as to the cutesy note about how I give her dog blueberries, may I remind you that this mutt got a freaking Dolce & Gabbana collar to wear down the aisle. You know what she tried to give me? Take a look:GUH. This is the kind of depressing outfit that even Marshall's refuses to sell out of respect for their impoverished customers' dignity. Luckily I had a backup suit - of the birthday variety - that I morphed into a sweet Armani number that really accentuated my calves. Oh you didn't know I could morph my skin? Good God people. You are going to make me work when I am ruler of all, aren't you?

Anyway, yes I give her precious little whore dog blueberries first. It makes the milkbones soaked in ricin go down faster. One problem is that the sound of the milkbone box opening means they both come running. It seems after years of consuming nothing but men's genitals, the Umlaut's palette is well... less than discriminating. What I'm trying to say is she is a she-goat.

Finally, you my have noticed that I have yet to determine what the Umlaut will be called in relation to me. "StepMom" does not work. This is your opportunity to greatly please me - your future King of Kings - by voting for which title the Umlaut shall have in the comment section.


If you can do better, please suggest your own. If you DO come up with something better, I will be impressed and then smite you down for your arrogance and insolence. So there's that.

Growth Note: My sneezes create parallel universes.

Friday, February 27, 2009

Thank God I Forged a "One Ring"

Back in my earlier, womb-ier days I dedicated myself to relentless self-improvement, education, and keeping my rotator cuffs well oiled (they are bio-hydraulic). In short, I was very busy - so busy that at one point I even made a list. Hence, I did not leave much time for personal projects. It's not like I had 20% of my time to dedicate to areas of selfish interest. I'm not fucking Google, you know.

But now is as good as time as any to mention that I did spend a few minutes engaged in a hobby of mine -and thank God I did, because it seems my greatest fear came to pass yesterday. So yeah, with a few seconds of pre-natal down-time, I went and forged a One Ring.

One Ring to rule them all. Or in this case, the Umlaut.

I'm not even sure why I forged it. It was really for a lark. I thought just in case I ever got hitched to Shiloh or one of the other Pitt-Jolie litter, I'd be all set. I never imagined I would have to use it to save my own family. So now, this new Ring of Power - forged in the molten fires of Mother's womb (after a bad burrito), will be employed to save the world and father (same thing) from a gathering, drooling, wallet-stealing darkness. When she wears it, I will be able to control her, find her, and ultimately destroy her. Just like any new stepson would.

After I heard the rumors of engagement, I found my One Ring and quickly engraved its eternal spell:

Silly me, I need to translate it for you, for I doubt any of the discriminating readers of this site read Waifish:

One ring to rule her fall, one ring to find her, one ring to bring her from the mall, and in the darkness bind her and kick her in the ribs.

I feel a bit guilty for having convinced Father to give the Umlaut a ring as a sign of truce and peace between her and I. But there are greater, more globally significant issues at stake that demand intervention. Like having to watch your "stepmum" snort 3 crushed up Cheerios and calling it 'breakfast.'

(Growth Note: I can look at my wrist and tell the time - without even wearing a watch)

Friday, February 6, 2009

Franchise Fake: Take My Umlaut, Please

I came across an interesting post today at Musket Fire. I have alerted the editor to the offending typo (reprinted below)

I believe there is a serious typographical error in this post, sir. You accidentally wrote "if QB Tom Brady will be healthy enough to play..." when you actually meant, "when QB and Son of the Gods Tom Brady returns from his sabbatical, to dominate the '09 season..."

Yes, that looks much better. And for the record, the Patriots did not franchise Matt Cassell. Father placed the franchise himself, so that Cassel and I can spend some working on his spiral. I've been throwing a perfect rope through bank-vault quality steel since birth, while this dude can barely break drywall. Unacceptable.

Plus, we found $14 million in the Umlaut's purse the other day, so you know, finder's keepers.

What I neglected to include was that in placing the franchise himself, Father gained an impressive bargaining position by adding in a secret term unreleased to the media - a team may either take on Cassel in exchange for two first round draft picks (by rule) OR said team has the option of keeping their picks and instead assume the burden of the Umlaut. The idea of not having to carry this wench around anymore is priceless to me.

Our daily trip to the STD clinic to rid the
Umlaut of her previous evening's exploits!

Naturally, we have yet to discuss how one assumes that burden, or how a transfer will be made (a burlap sack I imagine). In part because our conversations with interested teams immediately sour upon this proposition and they offer up even more draft picks instead. Our genius plan to rid us of the Umlaut backfired, I admit. Presently the current secret offer for Cassel is every draft pick ever (Lions), and Father is tempted to take it, I imagine. But our motivation is truly to spirit the Umlaut away forever and Detriot is unsure if they can convert Cassel into a WR.

Growth Note: My nose is not just perfectly centered on my face. It is the exact center of the universe.

Monday, January 12, 2009

I Am Not Amused, Umlaut

Listen here Umlaut, and listen good. I know you are not reading this digitial internet blogwebentry, for the only letters you know are those of "B" and "J" (most often used while you make a pumping motion at your mouth when in taxis with strange men), and your eyes are permanently rolled up into your head from your depraved addictions to nicotine, low grade smack, and starvation. But this business... this business of trying to ensnare Father - he who has only worked to cure your kleptomania, literacy, and general depravity - into your permanent web of debauchery will not be tolerated. I thought Father's gracious gesture of a season-long sabbatical would be enough to cure your harlot ways and we would be rid of you forever. But now I see a more sinister, evil motive. You are clearly developing a line of baby clothes and expect me to model them.

Holy fuck cakes, this cannot be allowed to happen.

How could I have been so daft!? I, who can list all the numbers of pi backwards, whose blood is part molten alloy, who wakes up and throws several footballs into space, and who can do really really difficult sudoku puzzles, somehow missed your grand scheme. In a quest to establish yourself as something other than a man-stealing, illiterate and emaciated coke-pig, you will tailor a clothing line for babies - using my glorious visage as a way to sell your product and more importantly further establish your dominance over me by putting me in feetie pajamas. You seek to drive a wedge between Father and I, and assume my role as Overlord-in-Waiting. It is no secret that should my face be used to promote any product, idea, or cause, it will of course become a global priority.

I have been kept away from cameras for this reason. You thought "Ole Hooker-Lips" was perfection? That bitch's face is everywhere and look at what has happened to the US economy. Personally I blame this whole Gaza thing on her and Suri Cruise, but that is another post. My face on the other hand is of such perfect form and depth that it causes immediate reproduction for not just endangered species, but imaginary species - you'd be up to your ears in dragon shit if I ever slipped up. Trust me.

And though I am stronger than every Arnold Schwartzenegger character combined, you know I could never break the bond of a Father and his son. Should father agree to your plan, I would have to go along. And surely Father would never agree to it if you were just his patient! But if you were his bride, than of course it could come to pass. And I would be dressed as a giraffe or something. Or a chili pepper. Oh God.

I can't imagine how you generated the necessary calories to fuel your plot, unless... yes, yes. I know. It must have been the time you binged and ate that entire breathmint in one sitting. It provided just enough glucose to your brain to devise such a plan. I remember because you constructed a full sentence and Father and I stared at each other agape at what had transpired! Words that included consonants! Less drooling! Father was so proud of your progress. And now I see it was not a cause for celebration, but a harbinger of the terrible events to come.

So hear me now Umlaut - I know your plot and I know your aim. I hope this warning finds you, but unless someone put it in braille and wrapped it around the johnson of whichever jizz-mopper apprentice you're blowing right now, I doubt you'll get the message in time to save yourself.

Monday, September 8, 2008

On Good vs. Evil

I know why you are here. You are wondering how this could be allowed to happen. In a world full of sustained conflict and suffering, when a hero is most needed, why is mankind denied the only one who knows the path to victory - the very path he forged himself? For once fellow citizens, I have no answers. This morning I do not feel like the pinnacle of man, the offspring of living gods, or the genetically perfect creation capable of miraculous healing and throwing footballs to the moon. No - this morning, like many of you, I woke up hoping it was a dream but all too quickly realized I had shit my pants yesterday. Mother knew something was wrong immediately when instead of the lavendar-scented golden treasures I usually leave in my silken diapers, I had instead crapped a pantload of Sacagawea dollars. I mean, you can't even give those things away.

Father was so looking foward to this season as the one where he would fully transcend the game of football. He commented to me recently that he has been seeing defenses in downward scrolling green letters and numbers - total Matrix style.

The KC Chief's Defense as seen by Father

After generously granting a wish to Eli Manning last year, and making leaps of progress with the Umlaut (I am told she can now go up to 30 minutes in a row without servicing a stranger in a taxi), he was truly excited to demonstrate the full capacity of his talent.

This situation does bring to mind a story Father once recanted to me. He and I were in the main sitting room, lounging in our smoking robes and reciting our favorite James Joyce quotes back and forth while the Umlaut slept in the corner of the room in her tattered party clothes; her face planted into her purse of narcotics as she snored. Father showed me that even in her sleep, the Umlaut managed to ingest heavy amounts of cocaine and ecstasy. We both had a hearty laugh at the Umlaut - for truly she is a most degenerate creature.

But Father did take a moment to point out that evil like the Umlaut must exist in this world. How could one know and attempt to comprehend the beauty of Mother without having a soul-less harlot like the Umlaut by which to compare? Good cannot exist without evil he said. I had thought nothing of his profound and prescient statement, for I was too busy kicking the semi-conscious Umlaut in the ribs with my baby crocs. Some days I cringe at my youthful impulses! I felt I had nothing to learn, yet how can I teach and save the world without first being a good student?

It is my belief that by allowing his own injury, Father was demonstrating the point more with extreme clarity. Not just to me, but to all of New England and the world. The point that evil does exist, that we must triumph over it no matter what, and that the collective heroic intentions of the whole - can in some ways - match the power of a single divine being.

The other surprising thing? Evil came in the form of a man named Bernard. And here Father had always been convinced it would come by the one they call "Jay Mariotti."

Thursday, May 15, 2008

Somebody Call the Waaaahmbulance

I recently read this post that is simultaneously breathtaking in its criticism of Father and in that its author is likely an adult who sucessfully progressed through this country's education system.

Unfortunately there seemed to be an error with the website, because it is only accepting posts that agree with the author's perspective and dissenting comments don't seem to be getting through. My only guess is that my comment, pasted below, was so logistically sound and beautifully composed that it literally melted the server. Either that or Jets fans are panicked cowards who cannot suffer the indignity of having a genius-toddler strike so surgically at their inflated sense of self importance. That may stem from the fact that Jets fans routinely boo their own draft picks. Assclowns. I digress, here is my comment in full:

It's OK. Let it out. Your deep self loathing is nothing to be ashamed of. But it is necessary for me to show you the true source of your misery can only be found from within your franchise - Mo Lewis in particular. The Jets are responsible for the rise of Father - who sprung from the ashes like a Phoenix, leading a group of men into NFL lore and the arms of greater destiny. Also lucrative endorsement deals and hot chicks.

However baseless, cowardly, and willfully ignorant your logic is, please know that I still wish us to be friends. My compassion knows no bounds, as I am genetic perfection living among you. I would like to invite you to join my playgroup, because the baby that whines, screams, cries and shits himself constantly has moved. I think you could take his place immediately.

You may need a Kleenex to wipe the tears from your eyes before reading anything else today. It's like if someone had taken the works of Tolstoy, Dickens, and the guy who wrote Goosebumps, and distilled them down to an elixir of words that soothes your heart, mind and soul.

Growth Note: My tongue is pinker than your first cotton candy at the old town fair.

Wednesday, May 14, 2008

Hear Ye! Hear Ye!

Listen to Father's voice and be instantly transported to a time before time itself, where hardy warriors and explorers of olden days drank in mead halls and fought for honor in hand to hand combat. Where plated armor was forged and worn in battle, and fatted pigs were roasted on spits in victory. Listen ye, to his voice that travels like a savage ghost from ages past - echoing the clashes of swords and the cries of fallen men. If you ask me, he makes Beowulf sound like a total pussy.

Note to both female and male readers - Due to the combination of figurative and literal potency of Father's words, everyone who hears this should immediately take thrice the recommended dosage of Plan B to avoid pregnancy.

Note to Employees of ESPN (the Four Letter): I assume that trickling sound I hear is you Bristol bitches pissing yourselves.

Growth Note: The whites of my eyes are made of liquid molten alabaster.

Via Small White Ball

Friday, May 9, 2008

The Umlaut's New Outfit

So you may have read that Father expressed a desire to see the Umulaut wear "the Wonder Woman outfit." Before you go ahead and assume he was referring to amorous designs for the Umlaut, you should pause a moment to reflect on what a waste your life is.

At first when I read the offending piece, I assumed Father had been misquoted and was referring to the Wander Woman, whose outfits are humble to say the least and would turn any recognizable woman into just another unremarkable lady with a mustache. After dismissing that theory, I thought perhaps the quote was accurate but out of context. For example, "I want to see her wear the Wonder Woman Outfit... in the middle of a downtown Kabul mosque while demanding women's rights."

Again, my theory was thwarted when I realized the article was written by the Boston Globe as opposed to the kitchen wench-apprentices at the Boston Herald's Inside Track (I refuse to link them). For a brief moment, I did the unthinkable. I began to doubt Father's intentions towards the Umlaut as purely acts of charity for the illiterate, the mentally disabled, petty thieves, and those who are ridden with STD's from head to toe. I fell into a deep despair that lasted long after my box of animal crackers was consumed.

By the looks of it, the Umlaut would need an invisible C-5 Aircraft.

But then it became so clear to me. Father used the same trick I arranged with OK Magazine and sent a subliminal message to all! Rearranging the letters, it is obvious to anyone that "The Wonder Woman Outfit" can also be made to show that he wants her to wear "A Town Whore Fondue Mitt!" He doesn't want her dressed as a scantily clad super tart, but rather seeks the exact opposite - to cover her hands in a publicly humiliating way while prevent her from stealing more wallets and giving hand jobs to cabbies for monopoly money. Father cleverly used the crimefighting theme, only it is he who is clearly the superhero in this scenario.

There is no other possible explanation.

I have not yet found what exactly a Town Whore Fondue Mitt is, but I suspect that's just because Amazon is out of stock.

Growth Note: In a crisis, my attention span can be used as a bridge.

Friday, April 25, 2008

Jim Kelly Must be Embarassed

As noted by the indispensable Bostonist, it seems Law & Order SVU has added an NFL theme to its 'ripped from the headlines' approach to crime drama. The promo for the show, as described by my favorite wenches of journalism:

In an episode titled “The Closet,” a pro football player who wears No. 12, has a cleft chin and a supermodel galpal, plays in a red-and-blue stadium and is “the best quarterback in football” is the prime suspect in a gay murder.

Like you my first thought was: Man, I feel bad for former Buffalo Bills Quarterback Jim Kelly. The description nails him down to the number and the uniform colors!

Would all the closet gay murderers please
raise their hands? Thank you.

Obviously I ruled out Father right away, because surely the episode would have referenced a multiple Superbowl MVP winning QB who heals the downtrodden, lifts the oppressed, and fights evil doers with karate chops.

On an unrelated note, because I am a super genius I practice palindromes for fun. Sometimes instead of letters I use the full words. So instead of words like Racecar, I would do something along the lines of Dick Wolf Wolfs Dick. I know there is an extra "s" in there, but it still looks right to me.

Friday, April 18, 2008

Piggyback. Literally.

You may have seen the now famous picture of me with Father and the Umlaut. What you might not realize is that I am not being carried by the Umlaut, but rather I am carrying her! Using my superior infant strength, I am putting her back in the vehicle that brought Her Skankness to our peaceful villa.

As you can see, Father and I are a perfect team, escorting a drunk and lightheaded Umlaut into a vehicle that will take her away from us at high speed. But every morning, there she is at our front door - passed out, oversexed, with several wallets and reeking of cough syrup. Think of it like the movie Homeward Bound, but instead of a cute dog finding his way home, its a retarded model with cocaine all over her face who can't be kept away.

Growth Note: Sucking on my pacifier actually pacifies others.

Picture Source: Flynet.

Wednesday, February 20, 2008

Happy Birthday to Me

As you know by the red circle you probably drew on your home calendar, today is the first anniversary of this blog. I have come a long way since I first hooked mother's uterus up with Wi-Fi, and in many ways I already miss the anonymous life I had built for myself in the womb - especially the mini-putt course. Now I am photographed, followed, and besieged for advice and that's just from Chris Simms and the McCown brothers.

I was skeptical at first, but his blog allows me to communicate more directly to you, my masses and minions, about the priorities of my future reign and defend mother and father from baseless attacks. Not to mention the platform it affords me for publishing the truth about the Umlaut and her wallet/father-stealing ways. I must admit, I do not mind the added convenience that the blog lets me multitask. Guess during which sentence I was typing and made doodie. Your move Shiloh, you harlot.

So thank you to the citizens who have participated in the great conversation this blog has begun about if my future rule will be magnifisensational or grandeurilous (trademarks pending). Your unflagging support of Father has sustained me throughout, and makes me think of you less as citizens to be ruled, but rather citiznes eager to be ruled. Maybe we are not so different after all. Even though only one of us poops fabrege eggs.

Growth Note: My taint actually t'is.

Wednesday, February 6, 2008

Eli Manning Made A Wish

Citizens, you must be beside yourselves with concern over how a single competition that was supposed to be so handily won by the favorites could result in surprise, horror, and tears. And I say to you that I will not rest until a thorough investigation into the ongoings in the Real World/Road Rules Gauntlet III is complete - or at least the season finale. You might also be curious as to how Father's Patriots of New England posted a lower score than the New York/Jersey Giants. I will reveal the truth to you: it was for charity.

You see, there is an organization dedicated to making wishes come true for children who are truly suffering. In this case, that (man-)child was non other than Giants Quarterback Eli Manning, who endures a critical condition of being unable to breathe through his nose. Father was made aware through secret backchannels (I told him with my mind) that were familiar with his previous work with those who experience the same ailment. Eli's one wish was to win the Superest of Bowls and prove to his father, mother, and oddly named siblings Cooper & Peyton that he is capable of equal achievements.

He also wished he could keep his shoulder pads on.

So Father, being the benevolent master of all that he is, decided instead to play the role of frustrated immobile Quarterback who appears at times both over and underwhelmed by the experience of being on the cusp of football history. To be honest, I imagine it was not hard to feign disinterest; after producing me, what is the value of winning 19 games in a row? He is responsible for genetic perfection personified that will one day breathe lifeforce into all creatures. Oh yeah, but 19 games of football is really important. I consumed 19 jars of strained carrots in a row, but you don't see me bragging do you?

Growth Note: My burps are arranged and covered by the London Symphony Orchestra

Friday, February 1, 2008

Not a Face for Radio

A radio station in New York had the preposterous idea that wearing masks in mother's image would "psyche out" Father. The link can be found here, but I will warn you that it may crash your computer browser; No man made machine is equipped to handle the beauty and radiance that a simple picture of mother produces. Nothing could be further from the truth. It will "psych UP" father, propelling him to throw over 50 touchdowns in ONE GAME. Mother's visage transcends the meaning of beauty - it reveals the soul of mankind, holds secrets of ancient civilizations, and is drenched in a love that can only be found in the ceaselessness of ocean tides.

It is the kind of rare elegance that makes Helen of Troy look like a fatty.

In the end though, I think it wise NOT to wear a mask of mother at the game or in the normal course of your everyday life. I had toyed with the idea of implementing this mask as a mandatory face-uniform for all future citizens of my rule, but grudgingly realize it would cause near paralysis across the globe - as people would fall to the ground weeping constantly - moved to tears in an emotional catharsis that existence of a higher power has been revealed to them. Shit, science might come to a complete halt at the revelation that destiny, fate, and a creator of man all exist. I believe that would be unwise, as I have much use for science at this time in my life. For example, Science Friday on NPR is great for nappies.

Wednesday, January 30, 2008

A Picture Says a Thousand Whores

Let me be clear right from the start: Annie Liebovitz is a damned good photo-taker-person. She's done several famous photshoots and is world renown for her talent and ability. I should know, I see her work every day - instead of looking in mirrors, I have Annie Liebovitz follow me around taking photographs and showing them to me. Why use a mirror when I can use a mirror of the soul? It's OK if you just cried reading that. Imagining the purity of my soul is a tenant of most spiritual awakening programs. It's pretty heavy stuff, I know.

So imagine my surprise when I saw this photograph of the Umlaut with what appears to be an over-ripe, albino Kermit the Frog with sideburns floating through a window towards her:

Photo Credit: Annie "The Mirror" Liebovitz.

Upon further investigation, I see it is indeed an ad campaign for Disney, which clearly is some sort of Hunter S. Thompson-inspired public awareness campaign about drug addiction. Here we see the Umlaut in her natural state of semi-undress amid a bare room in what looks like (judging by the disheveled, greasy bed) a Motel 6; lost in a severe crack-and-Virginia-Slim hallucination of an elderly ballerina dressed as the jolly green giant. As an expert in dreams - mine are painted for me by the ghosts of French Impressionists, you know - I can conclusively say that the old green ballerina represents her desire for money and an easy, vulnerable mark. The Tina Fey fairy shooting from the loins of the green man represents Fairy Dust, and demonstrates her association with scoring dirty meth from servicing unsavory individuals. The open window means anyone can come in at any time; she is undiscriminating and desperate. The bed represents a bed.

In other forthcoming news, I am eager to share my thoughts on the upcoming football contest and the status of father's ankle (hint: his bones are naturally 40% titanium, people!). Also, there is much to tell on the progress of my own development - how I am adjusting to the West Coast, and where I stand on the rumors of Angelina Jolie's pregnancy (hint: they tried once with Shi(t)loh who failed to conquer me, and now are trying to overwhelm me through sheer strength of numbers, but I shall not yield! I SHALL NOT YIELD!!!). Finally, an in-depth discussion as to why I have the strangest urge to be a fireman when I grow up.

Growth Note: If scanned, my fingerprints will gain admission to the Super Bowl.

Monday, January 7, 2008

Majestically Virile Parent

Yes friends, Father was named the NFL's MVP - as if there was any doubt. It would have been a unanimous vote, but ever the benevolent leader he is, Father requested a vote be made to the ghost of Sean Taylor. Peter King, the heralded Sports Illustrated scribe, took up father's offer and then unthinkably double-crossed him! How else could a first-place vote go to Brett Favre? Mr. King, in addition to the usual layer of Favre-spooge, you now have egg on your face.

I have taken a break from writing as I have spent almost a full month in a meditative state. My consciousness reached into unknown worlds, explored the very meaning of the divine, and transcended the vibrations of the universe. I also started baby-karate lessons which totally kick ass. I could karate chop your neck if I wanted to.

I have been catching up on my reading, and I must say I do not understand why Father is receiving so much attention for not having the Umlaut at his games, and encouraging Mr. Romo to leave Ms. Simpson outside of the public's eyes. Father does not do this for himself, rather he does it as a means of protecting others, and even the Umlaut herself. Imagine the Umlaut in such a congested area, having consumed nothing but alleyway sperm and cigarettes; she would become overstimulated by all of the lights, sounds, and smells. Also, with so many young children wandering around, Father knows she could not resist the opportunity to attempt several kidnappings and other acts of petty larceny.

Yet his acts of charity to her know no bounds. For you see, she thinks she has been to many games and met the players, coaching staff and others. How did he do this? Father took her to the zoo"
Oh... are yoo zee crotch belly-check? I will takes your pictures you
fuzzy coach-man of american footballz!

No. Father loves his fans. And he will protect everyone from the Umlaut. Especially the children. Thanks to Father, kidnappings in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts have dropped 100% during times she is within state lines. Coincidence?

Growth Note: I piss lightning

Wednesday, October 10, 2007

Smell It

I wrote before about Father being named the new Stetson Man. You can smell his musk, can't you. It's so strong that upon purchasing Stetson, men are given several complimentary doses of Plan B. These are then to be handed to any woman who comes within 30 feet of him, as the scent of Father's cologne can lead to pregnancy.

Below is not just the advertisement for a cologne that will make you reek of accomplishment and infinite divinity, but it is also a story of the Umlaut.

Here we see Father giving the Umlaut a ride to the Center for Critically Brain Injured and Illiterate Super Models. What does she immediately do with this act of selfless charity? She goes for his wallet and his crotch. Father knows she can't help it, but clearly he is restraining himself; obviously hoping that she does not drool in his ear and distract him from piloting the vehicle.


Father then celebrates the Umlaut's departure by jumping his motorcycle over 50 buses (not pictured) and raising $4 million for HIV awareness in Africa. What looks like a kick to the air is actually a long-held Yoga pose (Warrior 25, better known as Bradyasana). Simple in form, the pose is deceivingly complex; as Father acheives the near-impossible feat of attaining inner peace - not for him, but for everyone else. He already has that shit.

Growth Note: I sweat liquid nitrogen

Daily Stab via The Big Lead

Wednesday, September 26, 2007

OK Magazine is Subtle

Gaze into the dark puddles of mystery and tranquility that are my eyes. Or choose another adventure into the flawless serenity of mother's face, and be transported to a place where meadowgrass shuffles lazily, as if the wind itself was running its fingers through it. Or just notice how I flipped the bird to the Umlaut in my first photoshoot (well, the finger right next to it anyway - which means the same thing but can't get you spanked for it = double awesome). Check and mate, Umlaut. How I roll.

The image “” cannot be displayed, because it contains errors.
Image from OK! Genetic perfection from Father & Mother

As for OK Magazine's title: Life Without Daddy, I admit it was my suggestion. You see, my eventual earth-rule must be built on a foundation of existing praise. So it is in my best interest (and therefore yours) to see that Father and Mother are appropriately recognized. However, if we went with my first suggestion, "OBEY" it wouldn't sell many magazines, and might be too direct. Instead OK! magazine and I agreed to put in a headline that would still sell on news stands and grocery stores, and would also promote my rise to power. If you rearrange the letters of LIFE WITHOUT DADDY you get:


The man is already a walking God, but it would be nice to make it official, wouldn't it? Although the argument can be made his latest pass to Uncle Randy supplied all the evidence needed to prove his superiority to all mankind.

By midafternoon, I expect this picture will be framed and put in a place of honor in most homes across the world. I've been told the Smithsonian has dedicated a wing to my future school pictures. Those pictures of George Washington were played out anyway.

Growth Note: The lines of my palms predict YOUR future

Thursday, September 13, 2007

Tainted Titles, My Taint!

Forgive me future subjects, but I must use the space to briefly defend Father, Uncle William, and the rest of the New England Patriots Orwellinization from vicious lies, mistruths, and accusations that surely approach libel. As you no doubt have heard, petty teams and others who have been conquered by Father and Uncle William either on the gridiron or their marriage have conspired to convince the public that the team has been cheating by stealing the signs of their opponents' defensive coordinators. I assure you citizens of the world, there is a perfectly reasonable explanation:

The signals were given freely to the Patriots.

Don't you see? How do you congratulate a man for breeding pure excellence? How do you pay him a compliment worthy of his raising the world's next great savior? How do you honor his achievements both real and those still locked away in dreams? You cannot. But you can, as many do - turn your life over to that man, and submit to his benevolent rule. This 'taping of defensive signals' was less a case of espionage and more of a ruined surprise "video scrap book" meant to be presented to Father upon his 4th Induction into the Hall of Fame; a life-in-review of the many defensive calls he thwarted through the channeling of his own inner excellence, while demonstrating his merciful vanquishing of opposing defenses. But, no - you asshats out there had to ruin the surprise. I hope you're happy. You are the kinds of knuckledraggers who dip their balls in the punch at parties. Once I am crowned, you shall feel my wrath. But for now I will protest by throwing these footballs into space. Take THAT! and THAT! and THAT and THAT and THAT! I think I've made my point.
Zis punch! It haz a fameelyar flavor!
It reminds me of ze strangers I zervice in taxicabs in your American Zitees!

Growth Note: My muscle fibers support more pounds per square foot than the world's largest suspension bridges.

Tuesday, August 28, 2007

I Gotta Name

Jonathan Edward Thomas (JET) Moynahan. Wasn't my first choice, but it was on the golden scroll presented to Mother and Father upon my birth. I'm just glad it wasn't Jonathan Taylor Thomas Moynahan. How would you feel if you were sent to save civilization and were confused with this douchebag?

Yeah, the Home Improvement heart/mullet - throb.

And just in case you were wondering, yeah my nickname will be Jet, but it will definitely not (I repeat, not) remind people of John Travolta's suspiciously absent son; and instead recall images of a fucking engine of fire that gets the human race where it is headed. Don't have an opinion on the song Jet by Paul McCartney's song yet - other than it's sort of badass, but I have no idea what he's saying half the time (what the hell is a lady suffragette?). I figure I can discuss that with him in person tomorrow (he's been commissioned to write my lullabies, you know). Oh, what? Your parents sang Hush Little Baby? Oh.. How awkward for you.

Growth Note: My freckles are maps of ancient constellations and mystical underwater cities.

Friday, August 24, 2007

The Midas Touch is a Total Bitch

Hello, my future subjects. I write to you from outside mother's womb for the first time - and on the whole it's not so bad out here, like a glorified sun-deck really. One thing is for sure though: medical quarantine sucks mega balls.

When I was delivered a number of unexpected things happened. While precautions were taken to prevent injury from the molten magma that entombed me, and that Uncle Randy had his best receiver's gloves on to catch me, we didn't count on something. I was born with the fucking Midas Touch. This didn't happen in my uterine lodgings, but it appears once out in your 'real world,' everything I touch turns to flawless solid gold. As you can expect, when I shot out of my homemade womb cannon, Uncle Randy ran a post (-partum ZING!) route and caught me over his shoulder. And before you knew it, his gloves had turned into solid gold. In a brief panic, he threw me towards the doctor who caught me against his chest, and became a golden statue right there. Father picked me from the arms of the former doctor and placed me in Mother's arms before slowly walking away. Later it was realized that Father's skin is made of a rare titanium alloy and mother's is of the finest porcelain, so they were not affected by my 'condition.' To add to the confusion, 4 nurses perished when upon viewing me, I literally melted their hearts. I actually knew I could do that, so seriously, that one is my bad.

So I have been computer-free for a full day, but it looks like my Midas Touch is actually fading - Father told a tale of how- throughout my life - ancient charms and prophecies will protect me and benefit mankind, and they reveal themselves through my very bloodstream as I age. Apparently this Midas thing is just a quickie.

Tomorrow I will be released from this quarantine and begin the name selection ritual with my parents and a council of long-supposed dead gods from olden days. It's a family thing.

But for now I am ending my first full day on this earth the way I started it: Eating a 60 oz Hanger Steak soaked in single malt scotch with two shots of Formula 1. Suck on that Gerber Baby.

Thursday, August 16, 2007

When Will Then Be Now? Soon.

As you can guess from father's recent leave of absence request from the New England Patriots' pre-season, I am going to be born any day now. The birth really is more of a formality at this point, but I think it best that I arrive just like everyone else does - the regular joe sixpack, so to speak. Though I will be born with an actual defined six-pack and biceps like well-fed pythons.

As for the rumors of the Umlaut purchasing a gift for mother, I can assure you that this is not the case, at least not completely. She did send a gift - a lumpy rock that she called a "famlee airloom" Her instructions:

If you wan your tom brady bebeh to be big soopermodul, geeve the bebeh dis rock to eated. It makes so the bebeh iz not hongry for yeers!

She went on to say that once she got more well known in modeling she stopped using the stone to prevent hunger and switched to ingesting prophylactics. Mostly for the convenience factor, I assume. Seriously, I think she's brain damaged.

Also - from the Personal Complaint Dept:
Do you know how hard it is to get good quality gunpowder in here these days? And lighting a fuse is more difficult than I thought it would be from inside my homemade womb-cannon. Oh and I had to totally reconfigure the hinges on the exit, which opened inward. It was a goddamn firetrap if you asked me.

A friend recently sent this humorous cartoon
to me with a note that said, "reminds me of you! :)"

I chuckled, then killed him with my mind.

Growth Note: My knuckles crack in major chords

Wednesday, August 8, 2007

Father Knows Dressed

Today millions of Americans on business travel will walk out of their messy hotel rooms; perhaps hurried and late for an early morning corporate plenary session, maybe wildly hungover in search of spoiled honeydew and cantaloupe, or just still 100% drunk and fleeing the anticipated arrival of law enforcement and the lifeless escort in their room. Whatever the reason, it is then that they will trip over today's USA Today and literally fall to the floor coming face to face with the truth: Father is the Best Dressed Man in the Entire World. Let me take a moment to respond to this: No Shit Sherlock. The list comes from Esquire Magazine, and USA Today reports:

He's lauded for his "All-American Kennedy-clan suits," which clasp his yummy form like a well-fitting pair of football pants. Adding to his cachet: a supermodel girlfriend, Gisele Bundchen, on his arm. Not subtracting from his cachet: Being baby-daddy to his pregnant ex-girlfriend, actress Bridget Moynahan.

"He's managed to learn to keep it simple. He's got a tailor who makes his clothes fit really well, and he always looks like he's put a little thought into" his dress, says associate editor Richard Dorment, who helped put the list together. "I am honored to be chosen," Brady said in an e-mail statement to USA TODAY. "But, as much as I enjoy dressing fashionably, this time of year I care a lot more about how I look on the field than off it."

This confirms so many things, chiefly that the Umlaut is considered by Father to be no more than an accessory. I'm guessing she is somewhere above an unused wallet chain and below a Livestrong Bracelet.

If you look into his eyes for more than 12 seconds,
you are immediately three months pregnant.

Soon so much attention will be placed on me, it's nice to see Father garner some honors for once. If nothing else, he firmly establishes himself as a role model for every sentient creature in the universe. He's done it before you know; let me share a tale. One day after throwing 500 footballs into space, Father escorted Mother to a movie premier in Hollywood and wore the most amazing tuxedo. A lost bird happened to be flying overhead and upon seeing Father's exquisite attire became temporarily paralyzed by sheer beauty he remained frozen in mid air. Eventually recovering after the wind had taken him as far as the North Pole, the bird was so inspired by Father he decided to emulate him - forever forgoing his ability to fly and dressing in his own permanent tuxedo. That bird was the first penguin. True Story.

Growth Note: That punching bag thing in your throat is actually a punching bag in mine.

Monday, August 6, 2007

I Write Letters

Usually, the whores at the Boston Herald's Inside Track are known for their hard-hitting stories and real gumshoe journalism, if by "hard-hitting stories" you mean "alleyway handjobs" and by "real gumshoe journalism" you mean "contempt for anti-perspirants." However, I did manage to dig up a golden nugget or two from their latest turd of a column (though later tests confirmed these nuggets were just moldy corn):

And speaking of Gisele, word from our supermodel spies is that Brady’s leggy S.O. is winging her way home to Brazil to spend her summer hols with the fam. Good timing, Gi. Because, of course, Tommy is working feverishly in Foxboro and if his bundle of joy arrives this month it is probably best if Gisele is on another continent. She is said to be bothered by the amount of attention Tom’s baby mama is demanding in her final weeks of gestation.

Ah, so Father's leggy S.O (Salivating Orifice), the Umlaut, is leaving the continent because he is working and Mother requires companionship? I think I know what motivated that villainous merchant of treachery to leave the country: straight up cowardice. "Someone" may have slipped her this note recently.
To be honest, it wasn't so much slipped to her as it was placed in Father's wallet, where she would be sure to come across it during her daily pick-pocketing. And I imagine someone then had to read it to her.

As for the whole Glamour Magazine piece, I think the question of super-sperm has obviously been answered. My organs are made of solid fucking gold you know.

Growth Note: My liver can double as a Satellite TV dish

Tuesday, July 24, 2007

OK, Second Time is a Charm

I'm sorry - July 20 came and went, and I definitely did not come or go, but stayed. Things did not go according to plan, and the air compressor I fashioned to shoot me like a cannonball of miracles from mother's womb was undone through a faulty hose - a part impossible to replace quickly. I just knew I should have used some of mother's small intestine instead, but I feared that removing it might alter the fact that when she farts it smells like fresh-cut lilacs.

Anyway, the unintended result is that all of the talk surrounding my arrival eclipsed the Umluat's birthday almost as much as the actual event would have (but not as much, because actual eclipses, both solar and lunar, will coincide with my birth). And I am positively marinating in the sweet fact that she will get to experience it all over again, when I actually do enter this world.

Father, Mother, and I are all making our final preparations for the real thing. Soon you will know my name, my gender, and then some pictures that may stun you with beauty, or may just cause you to sigh knowing something so pure is in the world. Either way, you will defintely conclude that Shiloh was just a hunk of rancid whale meat compared to me.

Growth Note: My footprint is a small scale version of Da Vinci's The Last Supper

Thursday, July 19, 2007

Today is Like Any Other

I'm trying to go about my day as if tomorrow isn't such a big deal. I just want to make sure I leave the place they way I found it. Leave it to me: prophet of sexiness and athleticism unrivaled, future thrower of footballs into space, 5 star Soduko player, he/she who is destined to unite the world through genetics alone - leave it to me to get so distracted and leave the oven on or something. I'd be so embarrassed. Those Inside Track harlots would have a field day.

So tomorrow I shall be indisposed for part of the day, but I will be in touch. Do those neonatal units have wireless? They fucking better.

Growth Note: I do not breathe air but inhale hopes, dreams, prayers, and secrets and exhale pure fate.

Tuesday, July 17, 2007

What a Coincidence

Of all the days I should choose to free myself of my uterine lodgings, it just happens to be the Umlaut's birthday! I mean, who could have possibly predicted this (hint: me!)? The birth of a new world savior to the two most beautiful people on the planet will be covered in print, radio, television, internet, word of mouth, morse code, and that tongue-clicking language of stereotyped tribes. Imagine - a singular world event that manages to damn any other reason for celebrating that day for anyone, regardless age, sex, race or creed. So I'm guessing... just guessing, it will turn the Umlaut's 27th birthday into a meaningless and irrelevant occaision, relegated to the kind of celebration one has for a parking ticket or full cavity search.

It's not like her birthday would have been worth celebrating anyway. She just wanted to throw a party so there would be more wallets to steal, and men-who-are-destined-for-greatness to hypnotize. Plus everyone would have to wear galoshes or somehow avoid stepping in her puddles of drool.
Oh hey Umluat! Great Party (not)! Would you mind breathing through
your nose for awhile so we don't drown in your drool?

In the end though, we will share a day of birth - an important day for each of us that acknowledges our entrance to the human world and into circumstances that define who we are and who we are to become. It is a singular association that cannot be erased, like the scar upon young Harry Potter's head that forever connects him to the evil Lord Voldemort. Only in this case, Voldemort is a rapidly aging, uneducated and emaciated Brazilian minx, who breathes through her mouth and is likely mentally handicapped. Seriously, she would bust out a booty-dance when Taps is played at a military funeral. Oh zeez hoarns! Oh how zey cauz me to wiggle ze boom-boom!

Growth Note: My bone marrow is composed of 1/2 liquid nitrogen and 1/2 attitude.

Monday, July 16, 2007

I'm Thinking About Breaking My Lease

Sure I just had the place redone not that long ago, but to be honest I feel like I've literally outgrown this place. It didn't seem so small back then, but you know as you accumulate more material goods, everything seems a bit more cluttered. I admit it, I'm somewhat of a pack rat.

I will also concede that my tastes have evolved quite a bit. Much like the bottles full of highlighter-water in your dorm room against the black light (no, those really were cool. Seriously. I promise) that are one day replaced by a collection of strange beer bottles demonstrating your drinking prowress, I too feel a need to better express myself and claim my identity. So with that in mind, my plan is to break my 12 month lease and move in with my parents in the next week or two. You know, until I can get on my feet.

Then the world is mine.

Growth Note: The cleft in my chin rivals the world's deepest fjords, trenches, and gorges - filled with secrets both ancient and dark.

Wednesday, May 30, 2007

I am a Huge Unknown

Father, in a recent interview, has once again distinguished himself from the drooling plebeians that surround him. His profound views on fatherhood should be read by every father to be, as this advice alone will result in children winning multiple Nobel Prizes.

“I guess that late at night, I’m not so much scared as thinking of it as a huge unknown. I want to prepare for it the way I do everything else in my life. I make lists. I make plans. But being a father is different. I think that people go into it and find out, Holy shit, I have no control.”

As you can see, I take after father in the list department. Although his are much more ambitious than mine, I am sure. Not only does he schedule things like, "rear savior to the world" but I am sure he's got to be in the weight room and break down film of opposing defenses. I like how he refers to me as a Huge Unknown - which coincidentally I had been considering submitting to them as a possible boy name (you can't spell Huge Unknown without H-U-N-K).

Speaking of gender, while mother and father are aware of my sex, I respect their decision not to reveal it to the general public until the last possible minute. Imagine if told today that I was a stallion of a male inside mother's perfect uterine accommodations - parents across the world would begin slaughtering their sons on the spot, preventing these boys from experiencing a world where no woman would ever want them while I exist (it would be the responsible thing to do). To prevent mass infanticide, mother and father have taken the proper precautions of keeping my gender secret. With my perfectly tender yet callused hands, I applaud them. When I am presented to the world, the twinkle in my eye should be enough to calm the urges of parents to smother their children. It's like someone bedazzled my goddamn irises, I'm telling you.
She's apparently so hairy, it enrages people. They better look out for
drool puddles though! I say that because she's a mouth breather!

You may wonder my thoughts on father's apparent growing affection for the Umlaut. I have two. Either he has hundreds of wallets for her to steal, or he is dedicating his offseason to personally heal those with only the most debilitating of brain injuries. Those are the only possibilities.

Growth Note: My pulse is the beat to which 'your own drummer' is marching.

Wednesday, April 25, 2007

The Face of a Smell

Forgive me readers for what to you may have seemed like a prolonged absence. I assure you, it was not intentional, but sometimes I forget that not everyone is immortal like myself. Your 'one month' is but a fraction of an eye-blink to me (You will know when I actually blink because when I do, chimes sound in the ears of the downtrodden in distant and ancient lands). So there's that.

You will no doubt be filled with mirth at the news that I completed my entire 4 month to do checklist. I did not expect to accomplish everything so quickly; once I figured out time travel, things got much easier.

In family news, father saved Africa. But more importantly, he became the new face of the manliest scent known to men who are men. Stetson fragrances announced him as the face of their fragrance:

"His allure extends off the football field and he is widely known for his distinctive masculinity and irresistible character," said Coty Chief Executive Officer Bernd Beetz, in a statement.

I could not have said it better myself. Except that they left out just how far his allure extends off the football field. Much like a ray of light or the hope of a child, father's allure extends beyond the football field into the outer reaches of space and time, where beginnings and ends are one in the same, and allure itself is but a description forged by man to capture a sign of god's presence on earth. I have inherited all of his qualities, though I believe my "irresistible character" is what you would now call a 'tractor beam.' Like they have in Star Wars. Yes, it's the bomb.

This may shock you, but I firmly believe Stetson should make the Umlaut the face of a fragrance too. The line would be called Used-Up Whore. A new line for the woman a Stetson man dumps after he's sobered up. It would have a nose that suggests scents of stained used car, medical waste, notes of deceased wet dog, and a finish of spoiled citrus and crusty bread.
The tag line: There's No Hiding It, You're a Used-Up Whore.

And before I forget, I should apologize to the Umlaut for my 32 day internet-absence. It must have felt like 224 days to her. Partly because she can't count, but also because she is a dog.

Growth Note: I can count to Pi on one hand.

Friday, March 23, 2007

I Have Much to Do in Four Months

As mother mentioned yesterday, this week marks the fifth month of my uterine lodgings. It seems like just yesterday I was inspecting my new domicile, wiping dust from the chandeliers, and hiring a landscaper for my vast gardens. And while I have accomplished much, I admit I am beginning to feel the pressure of completing my many endeavors before I rocket from the womb at 120 mph. Here is a list from last week that I finished:

Well, most of that is already done, and I have been able to throw a football into space for some time. One of those does remind me that I need to get a new phone number. Some people call and call and call and for whatever reason, don't piece together that there's a reason they are not getting called back.

My list going forward will be much more ambitious. It won't be as earth shattering as walking on stage and posing for pictures with shoes I didn't even create, but I hope it will contribute in some way. It'll probably be something like solving global warming using my own radiant coolness. But nothing like what the Umlaut is doing. I mean - shoes... That's important stuff. I can't wait for her to show off her macaroni necklace while her face is covered in paste and glitter. Well, what's probably paste anyway. Seriously, she's retarded.

Growth Note: My snot is a mixture of honey and emeralds.

Friday, March 9, 2007

I'm Pretty Sure I Can Make a Pearl in Here

It's been 20 weeks or so, and now that I've spruced up the place, and thwarted that nasty lie about the Umlaut carrying my half-sibling, I have decided that I am in need of a project to bide my time. But not just any project - something grand, meaningful, and valuable. I was thinking taxedermy, but to be honest, hunting big game and mounting their heads on my wall seems unfair, as all I have to do is call an animal by it's name (my voice sounds like mother nature) and it will walk into the barrell of my weapon, or when I am older, my bare hands.

No, I need a project that truly demonstrates the genetic acheivement that I represent. So, after some thought, I've decided I am going to make a pearl while I'm in here. I'm thinking 3.5 - 5lbs should suffice. If an oyster can do it, I sure as hell can. Granted, my organs are made of solid gold and I will inherit a fortune on top of the one I create for myself, so why make a jewel? Because it's totally badass of course. You think Shiloh made a pearl while in the womb? Hell no. That tub of blubber barely knew how to make a number 2. No, I will come out of the womb at immense speed, with my scroll of possible names and present the largest pearl known to humankind. Eventually, it will be placed upon my scepter I should think. And with it I shall be able to see not just the future, but hear colors, taste music and roll it all over my arms and stuff like David Bowie did in Labyrinth. That was the shit.
I see... a waifish deep-voiced mouth-breathing
bony whore stealing your father.

(That's what I think he is quietly whispering!)

So, I'm definitely gonna make a pearl, and I've got enough calcium carbonate and conchiolin to get things started. I will also need a stimulant of some kind to get things going; grains of sand are hard to come by in here, but I have read that small pieces of organic material or other mantle tissue would do the trick. Seeing as mother is not a bivalve mollusk, but rather the hottest things on two legs in a little show called Six Degrees, the usual kind of oyster-mantle tissue will not suffice. However, I did just install a fine mahogany mantle above my fireplace, and I am willing to sacrifice a sliver of it to such an important and biologically impossible endeavor. I don't know where I will move my candelabra, but that is a project in itself!

Growth Note: My burps are composed by John Williams.

Thursday, March 8, 2007

The Umlaut: Thief of Wallets, Hearts, Man-Seed

Reports are surfacing that father has also given his seed to the Umlaut. Friends, in this time of uncertainty, let us be calm. There are many reasons to believe this report is false, chiefly because it was published by a Brazilian magazine. The mere fact that it is a Brazilian publication should raise flags; it is a known fact that the people of Brazil are far too busy getting breast implants, stealing wallets and kidnapping tourists to even learn how to read, much less pick up a magazine. But let's look at the more subtle clue: The Umlaut supposedly knows her own age - this is highly laughable in and of itself. It would also follow then that she possesses the numerical acumen to count as high as 26. I think we all can agree that this thieving harlot can barely manage consonants and not drooling while talking, much less actual numbers. I'm sure someone just told her that her age equals how many penises she's had in her mouth before breakfast.
I think they are all laughing about how old the Umlaut is today.

The far more likely reason that there are pregnancy rumors about the Umlaut is that she ate a whole raisin instead of taking one bite per day for a month. She probably thinks she's having twins.

Growth Note: My umbilical cord is made of the fabric of time.

Tuesday, February 27, 2007

Pimp My Uterus

You may all wonder what it looks like dans la maison, so I've done a little etching to give you some idea of my living quarters. It's not much but, I call it home. I'm planning on sprucing up the place a bit now that I've just completed remodeling the outside of my uterine domicile. It used to look like this:

But thanks to some good old fashioned elbow grease (or more accurately - the amniotic fluid surrounding fleshy clumps which will ultimately become my perfect elbows), the uterus and its support system is now much more my style. Aggressive. Powerful. Combustible.

When I am born I will shoot out of mothers womb at 120 mph while singing the entirety of Carmina Burana. You think Shiloh Pitt Jolie did that? No, that hooker-lipped blob certainly did not. That bitch probably came out crying.

Growth Note: My first words will be winning lottery numbers.

Sunday, February 25, 2007

Holy F*ck, I have X-Ray Vision

Engrossed in my studies, I went to dip my quill into the inkwell without looking, knocking it over and spilling ink everywhere (all over my new custom placental tile! Argh). Cleaning it up, I noticed I could see through my skin and read the text of my latest scientific study, "Autistic or Emiciated: A Behavioral Investigation of Thieving Brazilian Models - Famine Induced Kleoptomania or Just Retarded? I could read it all. Holy fuck you guys, I have X-Ray vision.

I know at this stage a fetus may have transparent or translucent skin, but I assure you I defy all convention - what with my genetic perfection and all - that this shit is for real. My power is so strong that I can't stop seeing through myself. You think the Gerber Baby could've done anything like this at 14-17 weeks? You bet your chapped ass he couldn't.

I have no X-Ray vision, but I can crap strained carrots all day!
(That's what I think the baby would say!)

So with awesome power, comes awesome responsibility. I'm beginning to keep a journal on my new powers and possible uses for them and shall return to this theme every now and then as my brain fully forms and other powers come into play. At this time, how can I best use X-Ray vision during my life? So far, here's what I've got:

Use the ability to see through walls to see explosive devices. This initially sounds like a good idea, but it would require me to be everywhere at once. To be fair, there will come a day where I literally am everywhere at once, but that is for another discussion. I think I will do this as more of a hobby and leave it to law enforcement and Superman.

Identify weakness and illness in people's bodies. Instead of submitting a patient to an often humiliating X-Ray or MRI session, I could just stand there and tell them what I see. Like seeing through walls to identify bombs, this could get very time consuming on a case by case basis. I would lean towards this, but to tell you the truth - hospitals smell like pudding and old people. And that is not the kind of environment I am looking for. Would you want a magic X-Ray baby to be grumpy and uncomfortable while it searches for illness? I think not my friends, I think not.

Spy for the Government. This seems like it would have the most large scale impact for the investment, but why would I do it at all when I will rule all Government in 2011?

Look through the earth's crust to the other side. That's more for geologists and hippies tripping on mescaline.

Look through offensive and defensive lines to spot the open receiver downfield. Now we're talking. This will be perfectly conmplimented by my dual future abilities of throwing a football through the offensive and defensive line players, and then healing them by laying my hands upon them. That's why father wears gloves when playing in the cold. He does not want to assist his opponents injuries and chills by letting the mere touch of his hand warm them and heal them. No, that would not make sense at all.

I will study the issue further, and report back if I come to any conclusions. I shan't be too hasty about this, because I could certainly do all of these things. Eye development and X-Ray vision is very serious business. I wonder when I will be able to shoot lasers out of my eyes. Cause that will be fucking rad.

Growth Note: I can translate the Dead Sea Scrolls and Zippy the Pinhead. Both are hilarious and ironic.

Friday, February 23, 2007

What's in a Name

The comment thread of this website speculates what my future name might be. In the body of the post itself the author suggests Robespierre which does have a certain dignified flair to it, I admit. But the rest of them aren't fit to lick my amniotic (ball)sac. To be sure, when I emerge quietly and smoothly from mother's silken womb, I will present my parents with a golden scroll listing the names I have prepared myself. While there are plenty of "baby name" resources, my favorite happens to be this one, which I believe does a bully job at identifying those names that are rare yet timeless. From that list I have narrowed it down to the following five:

  • Ch Haymarket Faultless
  • Ch Briergate Bright Beauty
  • Ch Pendley Calling of Blarney
  • Ch Rancho Dobe's Storm
  • Ch Felicity's Diamond Jim
Other names I am considering:
  • The Thickness
  • Kevin
This list, much like my future genitalia, will grow so large it will disrupt wireless service. I invite you to propose your ideas in the comments section, if you can make sense of those opposable thumbs of yours. In the end, perhaps it doesn't matter what I am called. Jesus had a shitload of names and he did OK.

Growth Note: My intestines are softer and pinker than cotton candy at the old town fair.

The Umlaut: Thief of Hearts, Wallets

Clearly the Umlaut has attempted to steal father's wallet and she has been caught in the act. I imagine father is reprimanding her in the same low stern tones people use when the slow kid bagging groceries gets overwhelmed. It's in her blood to pick pockets, but that doesn't mean she shouldn't be scolded like the thieving minx that she is.

Where is it you plotting Brazilian thief! (That's what I think he is saying here)

My wallet was right here, and now it's gone. Follow that pickpocket in front of me (That's what he's probably telling the policeman on his left)

Growth Note: My ears are perfectly proportioned and can hear the future.

Thursday, February 22, 2007

Is This Another Bone? Dear God it's Gorgeous.

It's been just over 14 weeks I think and I'm pretty sure, yeah - I've definitely got another bone. And it's fucking magnificent. I am not sure if it's a leg or arm or what yet, but I can tell you one thing, it looks like the polished alabaster of the world's most mystical temples - and for all we know, it just may be. I am not kidding you, this thing is the most gorgeous bone ever developed in the first trimester. I'll admit I've been a bit sensitive to the sheer enormity of my skull compared to the rest of me, but this new bone - Christ, I'd weep if my eyes had tear ducts. I feel more confident now, and ready to work on future abilities such as stopping careening locomotives with my smile and throwing a football into space. These and other feats of greatness will be made possible from this new bone of mine, I'm sure of it - because every single radiant cell will contribute in some way. I thought perhaps I would start to feel my heartbeat or something, but now that I've got this new bone, I can hold out a little longer. Good Lord, I can see my reflection in it.

Growth Note: My voice resembles the warmth and calm of a dreaming angel

Wednesday, February 21, 2007

An Open Letter to the Wenches at the Boston Herald

Dear Pirate Hooker & Cottage Legs,

I see you are hell bent on devoting your idle time to destroying my family. This nonsense you vomit forth reeks of a transparent attempt to get US Weekly to notice you. You say The Umlaut tells father to "stay cool" as if that means anything to her. This man has won three Superbowls and is considered the greatest clutch quarterback of all time. I dare say he does not need advice on staying cool from a 26 year old Brazilian mouth-breather whose main skills consist of walking deliberately and resisting genetic tendencies to steal wallets or kidnap people. But no, you hose-beasts made her appear a calming force for father. He could receive similar calm from a retarded beagle dryhumping his leg. Granted, she possess a sweet rack, but they still smell like DiCaprio's hands I bet.

The reasoning for father to have said nothing to this point is perfectly simple. They disagree on what kind of crown and robe I should have, and whether or not I shall have a scepter prior to my teenage years. As you will soon know, the moment I am born a new peace will wash over the world and flowers will bloom across lands both green and brown. Mother and Father are in a dispute over how to best control my effect on a planet that needs me.
The Inside Track Ladies on the Job.

So I hope that will clear things up for you, Street-Meat 1 and 2. Please go back to writing about John Malkovich sightings in Cambridge or plunging your head face first into the crotch of your current John.

Growth Note: My hair is more silken than the skin of the youngest geisha in Asia

Good News

Just as I thought, father let it be known he is excited to rear me. Though if my calculations are correct, there will not be much more for him to do beyond what he has done already. I have received several commitments from top 14 law schools and at least 3 are considering early-admittance, though some negotiation will be required as I have certain needs to be addressed. No, I did not say I am special needs. Quite the contrary. No, fuck YOU, you lummox.

I am pleased to see The Umlaut gained 14 lbs in a transparent attempt to look pregnant and compete with mother. Mother, whose beauty rivals Aphrodite herself, will not gain a single pound while she carries me to term because I am suspended in such a way that renders me weightless. Think of the force that pushes two magnets away from each other. Now in this case that force is called The Radiant Beauty of the Kings and Queens of Camelot. Because this beauty both comprises mother's womb, and permeates every cell of my developing body, I am suspended in a cocoon of magnificence, in total and safe suspense, while mother feels not a pang of pain nor additional weight. Also, my lungs don't work yet and I breathe (basically) liquified oxygen like the Ed O'Neill in The Abyss, which is so kickass.

Growth note: My eyes are wetter and softer than a baby Panda under a rainbow on its birthday.

Tuesday, February 20, 2007

My Gift to the World is Me.

I would have spoken up sooner, but mother said that if I didn't show myself I could continue to receive the New York Times Sunday edition at my placenta-step. However, now that my identity has been partially revealed, and my order for Times Select has been processed, it is incumbent upon me to defend my parents - forged by the gods themselves - from this blogosphere that hurls lies and mistruths upon them. I have no intention of remaining a mystery, blogosphere, so I will share with you self-portrait: