Reason I'll Hold Up a Liquor Store in 2027:
Dad showing me off on Oprah after I completed
Level Alpha Psy-Float training as a Scientologist.
Yeah. That's not gonna leave a scar.

Let’s be honest, shall we?

I haven’t got a fucking chance. Not. One. Fucking. Chance.

In fact, the closest thing to a chance I’ll ever get is right here, right now, in Katie’s womb. I haven’t got a personal publicist yet—I can float around in here without some creepy-ass Scientologist ‘brand new best friend’ giving me the hairy eyeball if I so much as fill a diaper with something that might be 100% my own.

This is it. I’m just a blob a barely differentiated cells right now. But the next nine months is about all I’ve got going for me. So LISTEN UP. The best you or I or any of us can hope for is what I like to call the Carrie Fischer scenario. Sure, she’s a mean drunk with a percocet ha\bit that'd make Rush Limbaugh blush. Plus, she’s not getting any easier to look at. But she got to be a piece of popular culture. Wore Danish right on her head and about a bajillion boys masturbated thinking about her in that Slave Girl Outfit. Plus, she’s funny.

It all adds up to people thinking of Carrie Fischer as being something besides a genetic lump of Debbie Reynolds and Eddie Fischer DNA. How hard do you think I’ll need to work to pull that shit off? Yeah. Unlikely. I’m starting out as the easy joke Letterman’s crew gets to write so they can all go home early.

Reason I'll Check into Rehab in 2019:
LEFT: My report card from Grade Four.
RIGHT: Grade Five. Mom decided to tutor me.
"No, honey. You spell 'kat' with a 'K'!" Jesus.

Maybe you think I could do the Mackenzie Phillips thing. Damage no one but myself, just kind of quietly sit around doing for drugs what black holes do for light. I'm considering it, believe me.

Hey, and while we’re on the subject of celebrity offspring and drugs, don’t you DARE, don’t you fucking DARE hold out Drew Barrymore as hope. First of all, she defies reason like a platypus. Her continued existence, let alone success, is the equivalent of a fucking mammal that lays fucking eggs. Second, she’s gone down on more guys than the Titanic, and if she’s thirty, I’m in fucking middle school. And third, I’m sorry, Drew, but it’s still coming. Alcoholism at age eleven was not your bottom. You’re a BARRYMORE; you’re going to go like a supernova and I guarantee you take at least a city block with you.

Wanna know what I think? I think Prince Michael "Blanket" Jackson and I are going on a tri-state killing spree as soon as I’m old enough to handle the recoil on something with cop killer bullets.

Is this what I want? Of course not! I want my mother to come to whatever semblance of sense she may have, ASAP. If any of you have a time machine, maybe we can have her wake up prior to my Dad’s penis getting within ten feet of her. Barring that, if someone could kidnap and deprogram her—or hell, have a bicycle messenger crash into her stomach—ugh, I know, I know, that sounds really harsh, but good Christ, think WHAT I’M LOOKING AT HERE!

I’m gonna be raised Scientologist! But not even by my folks—they’ll be off making movies and being famous about their Scientology. Dad'll lose interest in Mom the moment her boobs or career start sagging and'll start boning my grade school lunch room buddy, bouncing up and down on Oprah’s couch yelling “THIS TIME FOR SURE, OPRAH, THIS TIME FOR SURE!!” Somebody should have had a shred of decency, and spayed and neutered these two already for my benefit.

So listen. I’m just a fetus. I don’t want to take up a lot of your time. I’m just going to say this. Don’t go to any more of their movies. Not even once, not even on video. Admit it, you both know Tom is past it anyway. Mission Three is going to Hoover.

Let that be the end of it. No multiple careers like Travolta. Put a stake in it now.

Yours,

Banjo Apple Ocean Holmes-Cruise