Behold my womb, quick with life! Yes, world, the rumors are true–I’m pregnant. What the hell, full disclosure: Iraq is the father.

What, Iraq is just a series of frontiers, a geopolitical abstraction? Try telling that to my uterus. I went to Iraq a few weeks ago and already I’m rounding the corner of my first trimester. It was that good.

It all started when Iraq sent me a museum-opening-advertisement-cum-postcard (an ‘Iraqi text’) that had two words on it: “Let me.” My interest was piqued but not duly so. Over the next few days I received more—now more to the point, and in rhyme:

There will be a notable absence on Sunday night in the best female category. I wasn’t nominated for A Mighty Heart, a film in which I portrayed a Cajun lady whose husband was killed on YouTube. Everyone thought I would be nominated, but the Academy snubbed me.

Enraged fans, breathe deeply. This snub means nothing to me. Do I look like I care? Let me put it this way: Do I look like a leather-faced crack head wearing rags caked in human waste that is not my own?

If you answered yes, perhaps you’re delusional and facing a mirror in a public restroom. Forgive this admission of my own coolness, but—I make the king of cool James Dean look like Danny Tanner on stilts made of inflated condoms.

I’m proud of what I did this past Christmas day. How many of you can say the same?

I know, I know, Christmas is all about getting abortions, euthanizing old pets, and re-fashioning chocolate wrappers to appear as though they are not empty and then delighting in your family’s disappointment as they discover them — but this year I decided to do something special. I drove to McDonald’s in a minivan with Brad and the kids in Louisiana and picked up some of those cool kid meals.

Photo by Breakmold via Flickr

What are those meals called again? Brad seemed to think that they were called ‘Tra-la-la and I don’t give a darns’, but that didn’t ring true. I tried to order four Gleeful Plebian Repasts — which fell on deaf ears. Brad then suggested that we act out the meal for the drive-through speakers to illustrate our point.

That’s the blob, or my bloodbaby Shiloh.

The strangest things have been inside of me (i.e. non-toxic sex toys made from naturally-felled wood, Billybob), but no one’s vulva ever shook hands with a power-wielding mass of sheer white privilege like mine has, and that’s a fact.

My flesh-and-blood-baby, Shiloh, is the world’s most influential infant. And a blob.

I hate Shiloh, and I told a bunch of reporters as much a couple days ago. I know I front like I’m all perfect-robot-lady, but who doesn’t tell multiple media outlets at one time or another that they despise one of their children? Oh, she’s cute all right—but she’s so fucking white about it. I gave birth to the most cracker-ass baby that ever dragged its privileged infant body against the face of the—-

Associated Press

When I adopted my daughter Zahara I made it damn clear to the agency that I wanted a baby with no strings attached. A couple weeks ago I heard that Zahara’s birth mother was alive and wanted her back!

If only my babies matched the specific qualifications that I gave to the agencies, messes like this wouldn’t occur. Here’s what I tell the agency when I want a new baby:

1) Baby must fall between Burnt Sienna—Adirondack Brown on the Benjamin Moore color scale, or it will not find succor at my breast.

2) Baby must come from a land where ice is not readily available for consumption with drinks.