I didn’t want to do this.
It’s going to hurt my wife and disappoint my Christian friends and scar my grandmother’s opinion of me.
But in holding to my New Year’s resolution of being honest with everyone, I must confess something.
I admit that I am the father of Anna Nicole Smith’s baby.
Well, I stand as much of a chance as anyone else anyway.
Now that my dear sweet Anna lies in the cold ground (well, maybe not too cold – it is the Bahamas), I can finally muster the strength of will and conviction to confess my secret.
The way I figure it, back in the summer, I had consumed an enormous amount of alcohol in scotch-and-soda form (Dewar’s, if I’m buying; Johnnie Walker Blue, if you are). By my calculations, it is entirely possible – nay, plausible – that Anna Nicole Smith could have had relations with me while I circled parts of Greenville Avenue on that hot Saturday night in July before flying away in her magic jet back to la-la land. Or where ever white trash with money goes to get high.
Now, I have hesitated to comment (or goof) on her death because of several reasons, none the least of which is some I-really-understand-her-life-because-we-are-so-alike-and-she-was-a-real-person-who-I-really-connected-with twit who watches too many soaps will probably accuse me of being an insensitive jerk.
Excuse me for not seeing her as a good example by giving her kids meth while collecting semen samples from every swinging guy she ever dated. And I mean collected and stored for years to come. Even the ex-boyfriend in prison for stalking her.
While it may be that I am insensitive, why am I the bad guy? Has it occurred to anyone that the world – and her baby – might be better off without her?
How long do you think it would have been before her new child began taking drugs?
Happy second birthday, Dannielynn! Here’s your bong!
Who names her baby girl after her dead son, anyway?
Perhaps some people genuinely have compassion for the girl. It’s hard to tell when I hear a radio host joke that a video of Bigfoot shaving his back is easier to find on eBay than one of Smith in a coherent state. (And now Brittany.)
But what did we expect to happen?
Tell me you never watched two minutes of her show without hearing a ticking clock in the back of your mind. Maybe you thought it was her time in the spotlight ticking away. Wrong. (And it wasn’t the dang clock from “24.”)
Perhaps her problem could be viewed as a simple one. Maybe she never grew out of her poor-side-of-town roots. And when she got older, her self-esteem was not strong enough to deal with a world bigger and meaner than her. She had a few good years, but, in the end, she couldn’t separate herself from the negative atmosphere around her. (Yes, I think Stern is a leech, too.)
Her show became a slow motion car wreck with skid marks across our television screens.
She was no Monroe. She was no Mansfield. She wasn’t even a Dorothy Stratten. But she was our generation’s blonde bombshell in a convenient corpse form.
And who’s to blame? As much as anyone, we are.
You the people who watched her show and professed a connection with her.
I, and others like me, who viewed her as some drunken girl at a party who was good for being the butt of our jokes.
We the people who slow down at train wrecks.
We the people who watch car chase footage only for the crashes.
We the people who order DVDs of “Fear Factor” and download bum fight videos.
We the people who read tabloids.
We the people who watch E!.
We the Springer Nation, who watched her as she crumbled, trying to absorb our fascination while mistaking it for some sort of love that she seemed to be lacking.
Now in her death, perhaps she can find some peace.
And possibly her daughter can find some hope.
Baby Danni, come home to daddy. (And don’t forget the cash.)