the 941

To whom it may concern:

In the last 24 hours, several people have brought it to my attention that a certain singing superstar-bombshell to whom I might have expressed some degree of devotion in the past has now given birth to a bouncing baby boy. My informants’ aims seem innocent enough: Many claim they tell me because they want to share in my pop-cultural interests, or because they suspect I’ll be overjoyed by the news.
Well thanks for the lookout and everything, but this is one newsflash I don’t need. The fact that the son that should’ve been mine is now a reality may well become the most miserable footnote in the annals of my Aguilera worship yet.
You see, since Christina Aguilera’s pregnancy made its first rounds on the gossip circuit, I’ve taken great pains to block the impending delivery from my consciousness. It’s the only way I knew of maintaining the delicate flower I call my balanced emotional state. I cling to that.
Still, the tenacious psychiatric team helping me through this latest storm claim full-on confrontation is the best way of handling one’s demons. So if you haven’t heard yet, I’ll rip the band-aid and bring you the sordid details myself: On Saturday night, a 20.5-inch, 6-pound-2-ounce bundle of human error was delivered at Los Angeles’ Cedars-Sinai Medical Center at 10:05 p.m. to Christina Maria Aguilera, 27, and her troll/husband, 30-year-old record producer Jordan Bratman.
The mistake’s name is Max, which is also the name of my boss and the name I’ll be forced, Tantalus-style, to utter repeatedly for days and days to come.
Happy birthday!

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