Octuplet mom Nadya Suleman has altered her nose, lips, and hairstyle to resemble Angelina Jolie then deliberately conceived eight mouths to feed when she could not feed the other six babies at home. She is clearly mentally unstable and as defective as salmonella-tainted peanut butter bar. And I love her. I want to marry her.
When you read my story, you'll know why.
Since I turned 41, I have yearned to be Brad Pitt. He's so serene and innately masculine, getting out of that Mega Prius in his ghetto caps corralling his brood with purpose, the Young Asian boy perched on his head like an iguana.
Inspired by Brad, I enrolled myself in an experimental male invitro-fertilization clinic at UCLA run by Dr. Bernard Knifeman, a gifted fertility doctor who has implanted eight embryos inside of me. All went smoothly, and last week I popped out 8 healthy babies during an episode of the Rachel Ray show. Set your TiVo: "30-Minute Meatloaf." And, now, just like Nadia Suleman, I have had to hear the freak-hungry media say vicious things about my ability to raise my these babies, who I have named A, B, C, D, E, F, G, and H.
CNN's Nancy Grace implied that the salary I make playing a dragon seller on The Wizards of Waverly Place will never meet the estimated 2 million dollars it will to raise them. (I ain't sending no kid of mine to college, Nancy. Breathe out.)
Yes, I do live in a relatively small apartment that gets smaller when I microwave popcorn, and what is the big deal if my kids have to spend the first months of their life sleeping in an empty flat screen TV box. They will be loved and have free unlimited Academy Award screener DVDs. I am more than ready to meet the demands of raising a big family. I have seen 101 Dalmatians, and if the kids get to be too much, I will just spray them white and paint polka dots on them.
I have kindly been offered assistance by Ricky Martin and Clay Aiken. They have not only given me their landlines phone numbers, they have also promised to friend me on facebook.
I don't worry about the future. The babies won't get too big because I smoke. I travel a lot, so I want low weight babies. State worker are saying my babies are at risk of serious neglect, though I have repeatedly assured them that I am prepared to exploit my precious cargo faster than you can say Lindsay Lohan's sister. I don't care that Oprah has called me an invitro-pig; I am going to do it again. A fertility doctor From E! Entertainment networks has agreed to place five Playboy centerfold models' embryos inside of me and soon I will give birth to Miss July, August, September, October, and November 2030. Party!!! This time around I am going to have 20 teats surgically placed on to my abdomen and will feed like a she wolf!
I am being deluged with offers for book deals, TV shows, and other business proposals. The Discovery Network is developing a reality series that follows me giving birth to a litter of Jack Russell Terriers. It's called Flip This Bitch. Also, The Today Show wants me to hatch eagle eggs in the window behind Kathy Lee Gifford. It's very tough to sit on eggs, especially for me because...I can't...well, I would rather not discuss this here.
As a single dad, please understand, I know about child rearing. For example, did you know that every baby needs to be held? I do! Occasionally, if you find that the toddler has trouble sleeping, you simply dangle it off a balcony in Germany. Raising a nest of children needn't be incredibly exhausting, either. So many new parents forget to take their anti-depressants and sleeping aids with their alcohol! This is where neglect begins. I call it "chablis neglect."
Simon Cowell is creating a new show called American Baby. Each contestant will come out and give birth to as many babies as they can in one minute. Simon asked me to be a judge along with a 990 lb man from Mexico and Jane Velez Mitchell.
Relax, America, spare me this frenzy of attention and allow me to enjoy my pathological choices. I am planning on making a tourist attraction out my children. We will be fine, and my brood and I will invigorate the US economy. I am already learning to balancing the kids on my head like a real Jolie-Pitt.
Look, Ann Curry, I may be light comedian, but I will be a strict father and am prepared for that day in the future when my kids write their "Daddy Dearest" memoirs complaining about how I "mercilessly exposed them and how they have had cope with it."
It's normal. They can complain, they will have celebrity rehab waiting for them with their Uncle Drew. They will enjoy their fame-ish-ness and court attention with every cell in their bodies and be utterly self aware as they do it. These are MY children.
In the end I will explain to them that their personalities have been bonsai'd by fame just like dad. They will forgive me for rewarding their delinquency as they have rewarded mine...every step of the way.
Oh, well, Daddy has to run. As I was writing this one of my babies just gave birth to another baby!! Like father, like son.
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