If I found a magic wand that granted me any wish in the world, I would wish for this:
Any modern-day porn star should not be allowed to blog on MySpace about her pregnancy. It’s just too confusing.
I mean, what am I supposed to feel? “Hooray!! This’ll be the … the … sexiest, most fuckable baby ever!”
Let me make one thing clear: I’m not referring to all porn stars. Just the very, very famous ones who’ve been working in the last ten years or so.
To make it simpler: let’s say the ones who happen to have merchandising. You know: the ones that sell replicas of their vagina and rectum to everyone from curious young couples to lonely truck drivers. That’s a good dividing line.
And I’m not saying these particular porn stars shouldn’t have kids. Hell, maybe they’d be the best moms in the world! Maybe they’d bake the tastiest chocolate-chip cookies. Maybe they’d be the most reliable carpoolers — always on time!
I just can’t handle them blogging about it.
It’s the collision of two elements — commercialized fucking and motherhood — that can’t peacefully occupy the same space in my brain.
The act of being born is a huge trauma in itself. But a porn star’s baby has a whole other set of problems to layer on top of it.
“No, seriously: I’m not going through there. I mean, I love her and all, but hell, isn’t there one clean place left on this ho? Can’t I come out through her throat or something? –No, everyone’s been there too. How ’bout through the ears? …Same thing? Damn!”
“Tell you what: can’t I just stay in here for the rest of my life, like those Japanese teenagers do? I promise not to bother anyone. I won’t make any noise. I won’t make a mess. No one will even know I’m here. I’ll just sit here quietly in the corner and smoke and read The Diary of Anne Frank and try to figure out how not to fuck it up like they did. Please. Anything… Just, for the love of God, don’t make me go through that hell-hole!”
Yes, any baby born to a porn star who sells her vagina and rectum in stores will be an Old Soul, indeed. It’s a baby who may be tormented with thoughts like: “Oh my God. Is there a little plastic me in that fake plastic vagina they’re selling? And does that little plastic me have Three Fuckable Holes® as well? –I think I’m gonna throw up. Someone get me another beer.”
And I’ll tell you something else: that baby, if it were able to, could probably write one hell of a blog. Now that’s a blog I would like to read.
hehehehe, it sounds yummy, isn´t it? hehehehe