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.
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.