My name is Self-Appointed Expert, and this is my blog. It is part memoir, mostly fiction, and above all just trying to be funny. Some of is based on stuff that happened to me, some is based on stuff that happened to people I know, and a good deal is just entirely made up. So, if you find yourself offended, just remember - it's a joke. When you give me that look, it's a joke. Consider it my homage to the Secret Life of Walter Mitty, A Million Little Pieces, John Hodgman, and Christopher Guest.

Saturday, June 03, 2006

It's a Girl! A letter from Angelina Jolie.

But first a word from your author. Hi, guys. Long time, no post. I had a birthday this week, and I decided to pull a George Washington. You know, take a few days off, lose all my teeth, stop lying, own some slaves. It was a good time. As always, however, the low point of the whole affair was the actual singing of the "Happy Birthday" song. It was mortifying. Not because I'm embarassed to admit it was my birthday, but because it's just a terrible terrible song. I swear to god, it's the most depressing piece of music ever written or performed in the history of mankind. It's like a funeral march. And in a way, it is. A funeral march.

Anyway, while I was out, I got a letter in the mail from my dear friend Angelina. Or Angie, as I call her. It was, as you might have guessed, a birth announcement. Thought I'd post it here for everyone to enjoy.

Greetingssss, my darlingsssss:

First, let me apologize for the impersonal mass email. I would have called you all individually, but as you know, I can only squeeze so many spoken words out of my bulbous and overly sexified slug-lips at a time. It's one of the many prices you have to pay to live life as the world's most attractive half-woman, half-praying mantisssss. But as I've learned from my many tours with the UN, better mass emails than mass graves.

Anyway, as I'm sure you and every other human soul on this beautiful planet of ours already know, I gave birth to my first biological child this past week. (My lawyers advised me that if I kept outsourcing my birthing needs to foreign workers, I would eventually face some tax problems.) After an uneventful Caesarean section, little baby Shiloh was liberated from my womb (unlike the Congoese from the steely grip of poverty) at about 2 pm last Saturday. And though she's only been with us for a week, she already feels like part of the family. Sibling rivalry, for instance, has definitely set in. I've already caught her several times trying to "out-refugee" her brother and sister, Malcom and Zahara. You know the bit: refusing vaccinations, playing "how many flies can you fit on your face," distended belly contests. For a 7 day old, I have to admit, she's holding her own. Brad and I couldn't be happier.

We're also quite relieved to announce that despite all the attention from the world press, no one has yet figured out that I am, in reality, an alien. Brad thought that announcing we were having the baby in Namibia (which, as you all know, is really the 4th moon of Saturn) would be giving away too much, but then I reminded him that if we just told people it was some country in Africa, no one would ever be the wiser. Throw in the services of a nice Nigerian fellow (who's been emailing me lately) to appear in public as the "president of Namibia," and bingo! You've invented yourself a country.

Anyway, I should probably get back to nursing. (Yes, I know that it's a risk to use my $10 million tits to nurse, but I figure I've been milking my Goodwill Ambassador position for so long, it's only fair to return the favor.) Thanks, as always, to all of you for all of your love and support. Except for you, Jen. No one's buying this "I'm so happy and in love that I haven't even noticed that my husband's been procreating with another woman" act. I had a fucking human being growing inside of my 24-inch belly for FUCKING NINE MONTHS. I know that your view was probably blocked by Vince Vaughn's pasty balloon ass lying on top of you for the last few weeks you've been "not dating," but for Pete's sake, you're not blind. (Although, after looking at that ass, it would explain a lot if you were.) Anyway, I'm off to bone your man.

Eternally,
Angie.

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