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