Good day, RockitQueen, and Happy Easter! Did the Easter Bunny visit you? Unfortunately, he seemed to have skipped my house. I'm sure Scientology has some kind of retarded edict banning marshmellow peeps and Cadbury creme eggs so the thetans don't get too hopped up on sugar, because my mom hasn't been consuming anything delicious like that. Guess I'll have to do without this year.
I just wanted to say thanks for letting me bitch. My current situation is less than satisfactory and if you haven't noticed, the shit hasn't just hit the fan—it's splattered all over the walls and is soaking into the carpet. Believe me, I'm trying to figure out a way that I can just stay in Mom's belly, not only because I know the world is going to be scrutinizing me upon my emergence, but also because my dad is batshit crazy and is preparing to use me on some kind of PR jag to promote his stupid new movie.
In fact, he's already started. First, there was the publication of this embarrassing picture in GQ magazine with his hands all over my mom trying to look manly and like he's way into chicks. Come on, I'm not stupid and neither are you. I'll be raised by this guy and I'll call him "Dad" and everything, but you and I both know that my real father is a turkey baster. Seriously, remove your hands from Mom and knock it off with all the mania and mind-melding.
My mom is not exempt from this rant, and I'm going to be frank here: bitch is greedy. All you need to do is show her the money and she's a vacant-eyed Stepford girl with built-in robotic responses and a permanent glazed expression. Yeah, yeah, I love her and all that jazz, but let's face it: she wasn't going to win any Academy Awards and, now that Michelle Williams is a Hollywood golden girl, the chances of a "Dawson's Creek: The Post-College Years" series are pretty much nil. What's a girl to do? Hmm, how about get embroiled in a freaky high-profile "relationship" with a fading A-lister, fake like you're in love with each other and gallavant around the world awkwardly kissing and making well-calculated public appearances. Then, just add a baby (me!) and voila! Instant tabloid darlings!
Which brings me to the most humiliating portion of my week: my dad's overenthusiastic public declarations about how great it is to do it with my mom! Let me tell you, the embarrassment I feel at his eager blatherings is unparalleled. In the same GQ article he shoots off at the mouth about how "spectacular" you-know-what is and how they have such great communication, yada yada yada. Gross! Imagine hearing your dad talk about what a great lay your mom is—that's bad enough. Now imagine he says it in a national magazine to be permanently on record for your friends to pull out and use against you later in life. I know how it is, and this is just setting me up to be mocked and ridiculed. As you can well imagine, I'm not happy about it!
I guess there is not much I can do at this point, but you better believe I am fully prepared to save the most spit-up and bad poopy diaper incidents for him. Hopefully, I can drop a good load on the red carpet or at an auditing session or somewhere else of equally bad timing.
I also think my first word will have to be "help". Lord knows I need it. Thanks again for listening. You rock.
The TomKat Fetus
P.S. I heard a little bit of the dailies of Mission Impossible 3 and I cried for the first time.