Am I embarrassed I am having Justin Bieber's baby?
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Of course. I'm humiliated. The shame this tragic event has caused my dear mom is reason enough for me to be mortified.
Let's put aside for a second that I'm a man and Bieber The Boy Toy isn't nearly manly enough to father a child.
That hasn't stopped Mariah Yeater from claiming she is carrying Justin's child, and it won't stop me.
I don't know who I'm madder at – that shameless hussy who slept with my guy or my guy for sleeping with that shameless hussy. Fetuses are forming left and right in this sordid affair.
For those of you blissfully unaware – in this case you'd have to be in a coma – Bieber is an extremely popular singer. He is the most searched person on the Internet and on You Tube.
He's pretty darn cute, too, which is where I come in. We all know I'm a magnet for hot babes – Lady Gaga goes gaga over me, Jessica Simpson has had a crush on me since she was in the fifth grade (and that was two years ago), and Jennifer Lopez just got divorced because she heard I was available.
But I'm not, I'm with Justin now. (Plus, J-Lo tools around in that ugly Fiat. What's up with that?)
The fact that Justin has made millions of bucks has nothing to do with anything. His latest album, Under The Mistletoe, recently debuted at Number One. (As an aside let me say if I catch that Yeater ho, or J-Lo or anyone else kissing Justin under the mistletoe they will be buried there.)
Bieber is like, five-foot four and about 120 pounds. Yes, it's hard to imagine him impregnating anything, let alone me. But what can I say? Things happen.
I've seen first hand what it's like to grow up an orphan, poor and unwanted, left alone while fears fester and dark thoughts rule. (I know this first hand even though I was spoiled rotten by my parents.) I will not let that happen to my baby. No, son, you WILL NOT bear the trauma of an unwanted child scorned by his parents.
And that's why I've decided to become Mrs. Justin Bieber, even though he'll have to wear the high heels at the wedding.
I want a proper marriage, too. But first, my baby shower. Girls, start planning now because I'll need items for the nursery. J-Lo, you bring the lingerie. In fact, wear the lingerie. Mom, I'll need something to wheel the little tyke around in, probably something like a Corvette Sting Ray. Everyone else, I guess jewels and stuff like that will work. Pookie, I mean Justin, will probably want me to sign a prenuptial agreement, and I'm down with that. After all, I'm doing this for our child, I'm not some cheap, money grabbing slut.
Here's what I'm proposing: he gives me an allowance of $10 million a year – it's not for me mind you, but this baby. In return I agree not to kick the crap out of him every time the Giants lose a football game, which is almost every week. I'll need additional funds for baby-sitters and nursemaids because I don't do diapers.
In closing, allow me to quote the lyrics of Paul Anka's classic song, in honor of the pending event:
I'm having your baby
what a lovely way of saying
How much I love you.
Oh the seed inside me
I feel it growin'
Are you happy knowin'
that I'm having your baby?
I didn't have to keep it
couldn't put you through it.
Could have swept it from my life
But I wouldn't do it
No, I wouldn't do it.
And so I'm having your baby!
Oh, Pookie! Write me a check. Me and baby want to go to the race track today.