I hate to blow the soon-to-be abused clever little nickname for Anna Nicole's babydaddy on a blog title but I couldn't figure out how to make Birkhead rhyme with smegma.
Everything repugnant about modern society captured in the triumphant pump of a fist, cheesy thumbs-up and humble "I told you so."
"I won the million-dollar baby! My sperm rocks!"
One particular unprotected, sloppy romp with shit-for-brains/tits-for-days and Mr. Classy is golden! His 15-seconds of ejaculated fame.
Okay. We can all agree that this little girl didn't have a chance in hell of a tragedy-free life since zygotehood. Her mother was trash and everyone poking the trash was repugnant. The thing that reeks of Americana in all this is not that Anna Nicole was vapid and fucked up. It's not even that all the men surrounding her could have only wanted sex and money from her, despite her sterling command of the English language. It isn't even that three men and a goat have come forward with claims of paternity in the legal orgy following her death.
It's that all of this crass, tragic, shallow behavior is not being camouflaged in the slightest way by respect for a dead mother, a dead brother, a rejected/disturbed but grieving grandmother and last, and evidently least, an orphaned infant. No. Not even a nod in the direction of discretion. Not even a hint of humility at the challenges of new fatherhood. This is the look of someone who has just had his pony cross the finish line first. This is the face of a man who just watched the fifth Lotto ball drop in his favor.
If I were the judge and had the power, these two photographs would cancel Larry Jerkhead's claim to fatherhood. Permanently.
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