I’ve been watching archival footage of the genocide in Rwanda for the past thirty minutes in an effort to sober up (I often do this in moments of hilarity, like when Brad worked up the courage yesterday to ask me if I like-like him) but I’m embarrassed to report that the guffaws keep bubbling up like so much Veuve. There goes Umbeke with the saw again. LOL. Why does my abdomen continue to contract in spasms of glee?! Jesus, Kate Winslet—you haven’t made me laugh this hard since Titanic. Fire Crotch LOL.

I know this post is uncharacteristically chipper but really, how am I supposed to keep a straight face when Kate pretended to forget my name during her acceptance speech at the Golden Globes? No amount of bumbling British charm is going to lift you out of this cesspool, lady. 

 An article on the internet asked if I have any friends. I have a question for this article: What is 'friends'?

I know what a lover is. A lover is someone who cuts you with knives and uses your blood to nourish a garden from which he grows flowers to please you, and you smile coyly behind Venetian blinds as you watch him tend it, his muscles pushing against his skin in the sun, breaking his body for the production of beauty in your honor.

I know what a baby is. A baby is a tiny person who should live in my house. Baby sits on my hip as I carry it around using only the strengh of one arm; the other arm is not for baby but for lover, after dark, when the wolves cry out and rain pummels the spires of our castle.

Brad and I sold photos of our newborn twins for 14 million, and so far we’ve told people that we’re going to donate the money to an AIDS charity.  Well, after considering a number of likely AIDS relief organizations, we decided to just cut out the middleman and buy AIDS outright.

‘We can keep them in the garage, next to my boogie boards,’ Brad suggested this morning, over coffee and placenta. ‘That way, they won’t claim the lives of innocents AND they might just keep my hands off of those fabulous foam pleasure boards for more than five minutes!’

There are so many people who’ve come to my hospital in France to find out what’s going on with me--and they keep yelling ‘How is she!?’ and ‘What’s happening!?’. I arranged for my doctor to hold a news conference to let everyone know exactly what’s going on here. I’m including his transcript, so that you too can have the update that is your right.

Michel Sussman, MD: "When a Mommy and a Daddy love each other very much, they decide to make a baby and bring it into the world. They hire a babysitter to look after their other children, if they already have any, and they wash themselves and dress up in clean clothes and go out to dinner. Then a strange and wonderful thing happens; the Mommy’s tummy gets big like a marvelous beach-ball! This is because there is a baby inside—sometimes, if the Mommy and Daddy are very lucky, there are two babies waiting inside.

Is it so hard to believe that I took on some less heavy roles because my mom died?  Listen, Vanity Fair, we all have our own ways of mourning.  So I chose to grieve my mother by lending my Academy Award-winning voice to a cartoon animal in Kung Fu Panda.  Deal with it.

But I will admit that there was another important factor in my decision to act in the film. It was a unique opportunity to work alongside an actor who I've been longing to collaborate with in order to fulfill that bit of Hollywood wisdom about how to maintain A-list status: be hot and do a movie with Seth Rogen.

It worked for Katherine Heigl in that awful expose about young people expelling white babies from their bodies (Blech!)  Kids these days, right?  But Heigl had the right idea with Knocked Up.  You know you spent hours chatting about how she's really attractive while the guy who plays her love interest in the movie is gross.  (Yes, you, Vanity Fair!)  Well, I can play that game too.

I’m giving birth soon, and we're looking for another nanny to help us out. Does this description fit you? If it does--contact us! We're looking for some who is:

1.) Light-hearted and Fun-Loving.

My kids love each other, but that doesn’t stop them from trying to beat the asian/black/aryan robot out of each other. I want you to be an easy-going mediator, comforting Shiloh when she cries out of a vague sense of shame from being called ‘pucka-lipped cracka’ by Maddox, or discouraging Zahara from calling Pax 'sensei'.

2.) A victim of genocide. Bodily scars a plus.

My kids are privileged, but I don’t want them to forget that suffering exists. And don’t you think that you deserve something good, after what happened?

What is this—reality or the director’s cut of the Crucible? Last time I checked I was living in various mansions spread across luxurious international locations, not a thatch-roofed hut in a 17th century Salem. But where else could I be if a squeaky-clean photoshoot of me is being called a sex scandal?

You know what media outlets, you’re losers, but you have to feed your pets and occasional blind dates--so I’ll let you in on a real scandal.

Everyone--even the editors of this blog—think that Jon Voigt is my father. It’s true that my dad is a blond-haired, blue-eyed superstar---but he isn’t crazy old Jon Voigt. Thanks to the work of a couple of genealogists, now you’ll all know the truth.  They say that she’s my cousin, but that’s only because she got to them first and bribed them to keep the filthy truth off of her pantsuit. Hillary Clinton is my father!