I am Anna Nicole's baby daddy
I know, I know, the line is growing longer by the minute of men who, ordinarily, would avoid a paternity test like The Reverend Al Sharpton avoids diet salad dressing, but there is one reason why all their claims are spurious, opportunistic, and invalid.
The baby is mine.
It started, as many similar tales do, with "Oh, man, we were so drunk that we--" and it goes on from there. Surely you, also, have found yourself in a cold-water flat in Zurich with a hefty blonde with $200 fingernails who's snoring like a weedeater, who says she is Anna Nicole Smith.
Except that, this time, she really was. Yeah, I went through it with her manager, and the bodyguard who fell behind the party after he accidentally set fire to the front of his shirt when he bobbled a flaming shooter at this little public house in the warehouse district, and I survived the frantic phone calls from her mother who offered me money not to marry her little girl and ruin her future. Yeah, that would have been a blessed match, huh? Could you imagine the Thanksgiving dinners with that hateful old sow for a mom-in-law?
Truth was, though I was fond of Anna, I knew I couldn't marry her. Her Hollywood friends were always working to break us up, and she was far more clingy than I like, calling all the time, dropping by my work, checking my cellphone to see who had been calling, and rooting through my wallet for receipts, phone numbers, or whatever she could find.
Not to speak ill of the dead, but what a nut job.
Between that, and the certain knowledge that all of our business would be in the tabloids weekly, our relationship was doomed from the start. I really like shopping for groceries, and those awful cover photos make it hard to concentrate on getting the correct change, so it's for the best, really.
There's only one small matter that is not resolved, and that is-- who is going to take care of our daughter?
The baby is mine.
It started, as many similar tales do, with "Oh, man, we were so drunk that we--" and it goes on from there. Surely you, also, have found yourself in a cold-water flat in Zurich with a hefty blonde with $200 fingernails who's snoring like a weedeater, who says she is Anna Nicole Smith.
Except that, this time, she really was. Yeah, I went through it with her manager, and the bodyguard who fell behind the party after he accidentally set fire to the front of his shirt when he bobbled a flaming shooter at this little public house in the warehouse district, and I survived the frantic phone calls from her mother who offered me money not to marry her little girl and ruin her future. Yeah, that would have been a blessed match, huh? Could you imagine the Thanksgiving dinners with that hateful old sow for a mom-in-law?
Truth was, though I was fond of Anna, I knew I couldn't marry her. Her Hollywood friends were always working to break us up, and she was far more clingy than I like, calling all the time, dropping by my work, checking my cellphone to see who had been calling, and rooting through my wallet for receipts, phone numbers, or whatever she could find.
Not to speak ill of the dead, but what a nut job.
Between that, and the certain knowledge that all of our business would be in the tabloids weekly, our relationship was doomed from the start. I really like shopping for groceries, and those awful cover photos make it hard to concentrate on getting the correct change, so it's for the best, really.
There's only one small matter that is not resolved, and that is-- who is going to take care of our daughter?
posted by joe at 12:56 PM
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