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."

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.

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.

CLICK HERE TO LISTEN

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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