Tuesday, September 20, 2005


I got nothing against Britney's dad. The old man's a little wack, but hey, who ain't? I'm just a few days outta the woomb and I'm still a little freaky-deek. Besides, Gramps had to raise Britney, and that would be enough to make any man a little batcrap.

But what the hell's this noise about naming a freaking smoothie after me?

Queen B's dad runs JJ Chill, and his biz partner (some homeslice calling himself Joseph Nejman) says the drink is "in honor" of Sean Preston Federline, otherwise known as Me. Only he's calling it the Preston Smoothie, which sounds like a well-groomed gay man. And that sure as hell ain't me, 'cause I'm still naked, y'all.

The worst part is what the smoothie's made outta -- fat-free frozen yogurt, strawberries and mangoes. Mangoes? Who the hell got it in their pinhead that mangoes would be something I'd like? What crackhead said to himself, "Yeah yeah yeah, the little kid reminds me of mangoes."

Whoever it was, bring them to me and I'll show 'em how well I can urinate. I gots the aim, baby.

Friday, September 16, 2005


OK, so when the doc cuts through Mama's belly and into my crib, first thing I want to do is kick some ass. Here's Mom all 'fraidy freaky 'cause she don't like pain, so she pre-plans a C-section and makes sure everyone knows but me.

Christ on a crutch, what's a baby gotta do to get some lovin' here?

So the peeps reach in and grabs me, like I'm a bundle of loot and this is a robbery. Sure sure, the docs be wearing masks, so at first I think it is a robbery, but then I realize Mama got her legs spread, so maybe it's a costume orgy. You know, I'm just saying ...

But all turned out well, considering. Lots more room out here. Womb was getting snug. I coulda been seven whole pounds if the Queen B woulda let me gestate for a few more days. Damn, just when I was pimpin' free in the crib, Mama's gotta spoil the fun. I mean, I love her and all, but damn. Just damn. All this bright light be bothering my sensitive eyes.

So is the name. Sean Preston Federline ain't exactly the boldest of names, you know what I'm saying? Sounds a little faggy to me, but I'll take it, long as you don't call me Preston. Comes to that, I'm doing the beatdown on someone's skull.

And this goes out to all y'all: Quit your goddamned cooing. I ain't no bird, though I'm gonna peck the living hell outta the next person who comes by and starts with the "ooooh, isn't he precious? Coo, coo, gaga goo-goo." Enough to make a baby wanna scream, so I been doing a lot of that.

But damn, I am good looking. Fulla head of curly hair and hung like a 10-year-old. Damn, I know that ain't on account of the Sperminator -- oops, I mean Daddy. The folks were getting it on a lot while I was kicking back, and I didn't have any knocks on my door, if you know what I'm saying.

Best part of being out here? I know the taste of the teat, and lemme tell you, brother, it's tight and sweet. Just think about me sucking on Brit's right nipple. Picture it. Savor it. Be freaking jealous all you want, 'cause I'm the only one doing the deed right now -- and it's mighty fine.

Speaking of nice racks, Ashanti bopped by with some greetings. Wonder if I could convince Mom that she's all dried up and Ashanti needs to let me suckle her.

Carmen Electra also stopped by, but no way am I sucking her tit. A baby's got some pride.

Wednesday, September 14, 2005


Hot damn, but ain't life good now that I'm a fully functioning baby.

Watch out, world. Watch out, Mr. Sperm Donor. I have just begun to blog.

Monday, August 22, 2005


How's it hanging, my peeps? Sorry it's been a while since we last yapped, but this gestating gig is taking up all my time, you know what I'm saying? People think it's all good, kicking back in the womb and slurping up the nutrients from Mama. But I'm here to tell you -- ain't so.

And now I got a bad case of indigestion and I ain't even eaten any solids yet. You know things are bad when you get acid reflux in the womb.


All on account of Mama and her Sperminator think "Preston" is a good name for me.

What sorta wack name is "Preston," anyway? Sounds like some sorta fancy boy -- like that brat boy belonging to Judge John Roberts. Jesus, but that boy needs a swift smack on his asscheeks. Maybe two.

He's the one they ought to name "Preston." Fits that seersucker suit with the short pants. Only a Preston would wear a gay-ass outfit like that.

Now all the tabloids are yapping about Preston and how Britney and Sperm Boy are all excited about the impending birth of ME. Well, no doubt about that one. Who wouldn't be excited to bring ME into the world?

Sez Mama: "The only thing I haven't done so far is experience the closest thing to God and that's have a baby. I can't wait!"

Yeah, well honey, cross them legs and wait just a minute. You and me got some talking to do. Not only about the name (me, I prefer "Ben Jammin'" or maybe "John Stone" for a first and middle name).

Me and Mama also got to rap about my future. She and the Seed Man say they don't have any plans for me to get into show biz. Mama says, "We think a child can go to school, go to college, and when they're old enough to make their own decision, they can."

Hey Brit, shut that yapper and listen for a minute. I'm the one gonna be deciding about school (and college, since they're the same damned thing). I'm the one who'll decide about show business. I'm already old enough to make my own decision, and I've decided a couple things:

•Preston ain't gonna cut it.

•Neither is this noise about a birthing pool filled with 1,000 one-liter bottles of specially blessed Kabbalah water.

First of all, Mama, you ain't into the Kabbalah thing. Second, I ain't splashing down in a tub full of water that Madonna thinks is special.

Man, am I gonna have to raise these parents by myself?

Tuesday, August 09, 2005


Soon as I'm expelled from Queen B's womb, I'm doing some ass kicking. And Christina Aguilera's skanky cheeks be the first place I start hitting.

Damn. Just damn. Mama's former bestest friend, now talking smack about Brit's body.

Christina says, "She's let herself go. I can't see a comeback on the cards."

Damn. Words like that, they sting so bad they make Mama feel like she burning inside. Kinda like what happened after she ate one-a them Taco Bell grilled stuffed things. Only worse.

Christina says Mama can't never be no star again 'cause she got all fat with me. Which means that Aguilera ho be blaming ME for Brit looking bad.

That's it. The fake blonde skank is going down, and I don't mean on Busta Rhymes. When I'm through with her she'll be lucky to sing backup for Bobby Brown.

Friday, July 29, 2005


I'm flipping through the paper the other day -- OK, fine, it was a wireless connection and I was using my laptop -- when I ran across this little piece that said Mama wasn't planning on having any more kids.

Yay! Happy damned days, you bet. First there was this noise that Queen B was carrying twins, enough to make me get all freaky. I checked around the womb, didn't find any stowaways, put away the knife.

But now Brit says she ain't happy carrying all the extra weight. Makes her sad. Makes her blue.

Makes her want to adopt the next one, according to the papers.

WTF? Adopt?

Brit's all like, "We should help poor children by adopting one." Sperm Donor Man is all like, "We can still do it wit' you on ya hands and knees, right?" And Brit's all like, "Yeah, baby, that's what I'm talking about." And I'm like, "Jesus, will you two dim bulbs just close your pieholes?"

Can't stand stupid people. Gotta get outta this shallow gene pool.

Once I bust loose and dazzle the world with my beauty, grace, charm and intelligence, I'm gonna make sure Mom stays away from other babies. She can't be trusted to make the right, tight choice when it comes to ME. And dammit, that's all that counts in the world. That, and getting the new Liz Phair CD this fall. Mom don't like her and says she can't sing. I think Mom's just pissed 'cause the Sperminator says he'd do Liz. Who can blame him?

Thursday, July 07, 2005


Christ Almighty. For months I've been cooped up in this dark, fetid place, forced to listen to Mom and Mr. Stoopid (aka the sperm donor who knocked up Queen B) through the thin walls. Feels like a New York walk-up, even though I can't see any gang scrawls on the walls (I'm not saying they're not there; I just can't see 'em).

But now some people say Mama might be packing ... TWINS.

Jesus, Joseph & Mary. This explains everything. No wonder I can't turn around in here. No kicking back in Brit's womb, baby -- she's tight. Or so I assumed.

I'm telling you, if there's another fetus in here, I'm pulling a chimera and eating that bastard. Might be a little later than most chimerics, but a girl can try, can't she?