Sunday, February 11, 2007

Vickie Lynn and me

I heard something like on Saturday on 1010 News, a radio station that strings together headlines, apparently not with a lot of thought:

“Two possible fathers for Anna Nicole Smith’s baby have come forward and now Zsa Zsa Gabor’s husband has said he may be the father. And there may be a fourth. Barak Obama officially announces later today.”

To be fair to the announcer, you could tell he saw the humor in it, and the next time around, the items were in a different order. Still, wish I had tape handy at the time.

It’s time for all men who have had sex with Anna to come forward and make a bid for the money. Apparently, who ever gets custody of the kid (Good Lord, a five month old – who cares? -- I’ll buy five nannies) gets the half a billion dollars or so.

I first met Anna in 1987 when she was dancing in a bar in the deep South. There was something special about her. Her breasts were enormous, of course. Did I mention she had big breasts. She told me her name was Bambi or Barbie or something like that while I was getting the lap dance, but later that night when we were recuperating from the passionate sex we had had, she gave me her real name, Vickie Lynn Hogan. I always knew her as Vickie Lynn during our 20 year on again off again affair.

I only realized that she and Anna were one and the same after her sad death this past week, and only then when I had time to focus on how much money was at stake. I understand that the lawsuit over the half billion or so prize . . . er, husband’s estate, is still being litigated. Now it's estate against estate, as the testator and the possible beneificiaries are all dead. But suppose, we should lose and Anna (therefore child, therefore guardian, therefore me) and I only get ten million. I have to tell you, that’s enough for me. In fact, in order to get our adversaries on my side, I'll stipulate to that right now.

Here’s my plan. I claim paternity. Let’s see. What would my memory be. Oh, I got it. In 1983 Vickie or Anna or whatever her name was and I froze some of my sperm in the outdoor freezer behind her trailer. It wasn’t a big deal. On the same day we froze her recently deceased dog and a clump of her hair that she had accidentally pulled out in a drunken stupor. About a year or so ago I received a call from her asking me if I remembered where we put it. I seemed to recall we had frozen the sperm in an empty mayonnaise container along with an explanatory note, cleverly encoded in pig latin. She thanked me (in pig latin) and hung up. That’s the last time we spoke.

Once I win the battle of the baby, I will move down to the Bahamas, where the kid lives and where its relatively cheap to survive while awaiting a gravy train. Frankly, its likely that someone will put me up for free just for the celebrity status and the chance for a cool buck. Once the money rolls in, well, then it’s a home in Beverly Hills (I too will now be a celebrity and might even get a movie deal) and probably one in East Berlin near Brad and Angelina (my next conquest – keep that under your hat).

I may have to cart the kid around for a while just to make it look good, but they have to sleep sometime. I mean how often do we see celebrities without their children anyway. I’d say all the time. Was Diana’s kids with her when the car crashed? Are Pam Anderson’s kids with her when she gets photographed coming from some man’s apartment or home in the early morning (let’s hope not)? Besides, there is an argument to be made that a good boarding school is the best place to raise a kid (thank you, royal families all over the world).

And to be fair to myself and the other possible fathers, it’s really about the money, and the kid (notice, I haven’t bothered to learn her name – I wonder if the other guys know it) comes in second place.

What will I do when she comes of age and wants her money.? I’ll say “Kid, (although I’ll likely know her name by then) I invested it, and, well, that’s why you can never rely on your parents and have to learn to take care of yourself. After all, your Mom worked for her half a billion dollars, and so can you”. If she inherits her mother's looks and silicone capacity, she should have no trouble.

A news station had a question for the public the other day – What is the best way to win the war in Iraq – wait, no, that wasn’t it. It was – how will you remember Anna Nicole Smith? I’m sure for some it will be her enormous breasts (I probably should have used that phrase more in this article - enormous breasts, enormous breasts) and for some it will be her impersonation of someone with severe cognitive difficulties. Others for her acting ability (yes, believe it or not, there was at least one film).

For my part, Vickie Lynn, I will remember your money, for as long as it lasts.



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  2. you-know-who4:56 PM

    Have I met Vickie Lynn?? At one of your bar-be-ques, no?? So many comments going through my head right now, so many I cannot post...


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I started this blog in September, 2006. Mostly, it is where I can talk about things that interest me, which I otherwise don't get to do all that much, about some remarkable people who should not be forgotten, philosophy and theories (like Don Foster's on who wrote A Visit From St. Nicholas and my own on whether Santa is mostly derived from a Norse god) and analysis of issues that concern me. Often it is about books. I try to quote accurately and to say when I am paraphrasing (more and more). Sometimes I blow the first name of even very famous people, often entertainers. I'm much better at history, but once in a while I see I have written something I later learned was not true. Sometimes I fix them, sometimes not. My worst mistake was writing that Beethoven went blind, when he actually went deaf. Feel free to point out an error. I either leave in the mistake, or, if I clean it up, the comment pointing it out. From time to time I do clean up grammar in old posts as, over time I have become more conventional in my grammar, and I very often write these when I am falling asleep and just make dumb mistakes. It be nice to have an editor, but . . . .