18 January 2006
T minus six months
But now comes the tough love, and here we speak directly to the unborn Infangelina, as it glows elsewhere in its celestial holding cell: yes, you'll be beautiful, genetically flawless, and famous from the moment you're born. Yes, you'll be received by the public like some combination of the dauphin heir and a foolproof new diet drug. You will be worshipped. You will be gobbled.
But not yet. And not by us.
Because you already have such a high risk factor of Michael Jacksonitis, we won't help incubate the virus. You're going to have to earn your fame. Not just by mewling and twitching and being all cute and baby-like. Not just by casting your poor adoptive siblings in shadow, those who were rescued from unfortunate conditions only now to become the most Outshone Kids in Human History. Oy, talk about issues. Talk about therapy.
But you, The Infangelina, will need to, you know, do something. You run the risk of becoming the biggest Paris Hilton of all time. So no sooner will you come tumbling out of the womb and dazzling us with your glory, then you need to pick up a guitar. Maybe write a book. Adopt some pets. Make your papa proud and become an architect. By which we really mean, become a grounded, well-rounded, compassionate person, so that you'll be able to handle all the attention, once the whole healing-the-lame, making-the-blind-to-see stuff starts.
It occurs to me that this might be worthwhile advice to the future children of normal people as well.Posted at 8:17 AM to Next Generation