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

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.

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:

THOU WILT DEIFY DAD

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

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

link to stardoll here.

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

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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:

I admit it bears resemblance to Da Vinci (or Great Great Great Great Pop-Pop).
His work has been such an influence upon my craft.

I assure you I have many thoughts to record regarding father, mother, and The Umlaut who threatens to tear us apart, but for now I shall retire to my drawing room. I promised myself I'd install that HDTV today. And not with magic. My powers are terribly unpredictable at this stage.

Growth Note: My skin is perfumed with scents of Scotland's rolling grasses, with subtle notes of tropical citrus and sandalwood.