It Just Isn't Christmas Until You Insult an Obnoxious Celebrity
Firstborn is home sick today, and Rosemary's Baby decided it was time to get up and come jump on my bed at 4AM, so I'm a little dizzy this morning (or is it afternoon?). Since the day is obviously a write-off, I thought I'd get started on my end-of-year greeting letters. Here's what I've come up with so far.
Dear Mr. Cruise,
Can I call you Tom? On second thought, let's not get too familiar. I'm a little afraid you'll lure me into the Scientology Celebrity Center and my friends and family will never hear from me again.
First there was the couch-jumping incident. Then came the forcing of your adorable third wife to give birth to her first child with no drugs and in complete silence (you really ought to have been there when, after 26 hours of labour and 4 hours of pushing, Firstborn's enormous head finally emerged, ripping half my insides out with it, to understand how truly and deeply this offends me). Recently I read that you showered your toddler with a Manhattan penthouse of her very own (I just picked up a great pair of dollar store binoculars for Rosemary's Baby's stocking!). Before the days when we all knew your opinions on...everything, I was naive enough to believe that there might be a celebrity or two out there who wasn't completely, utterly and outright CRAZY. Thank you for setting me straight.
Someone who has no patience for your nonsense.
P.S. Please reconsider your stance on Ritalin. I think it could really help you.