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.

StealthMom
StepWhore
StepWench
WhoreBag
SheWitch

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.

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)

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.

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.

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

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.