An open letter to the unconceived children of Jenna Jameson

Dear unconceived children of Jenna Jameson,

Hello, my name is Baron Von Awesome and I live in Phoenix, Arizona.  I know you technically don’t exist, but with Britney Spears and Anna Nicole Smith in the headlines and Pam Anderson still lurking around, it seems that it would be a given that Jenna Jameson will join the Blond Skanky-Types with Kids Gang.  With that inevitability in mind, I felt compelled to write this letter in the hopes of better preparing you for the future that awaits.

To the daughters:

I don’t even know where to start.  You’ve got some big *ahem* shoes to fill.  You don’t have many options.  Let’s say you decide to “be your own woman.”  That’s all well and good, until someone finds out whose daughter you are, and then you’re fucked.  The expectations alone pretty much guarantee that you will develop a very unhealthy attitude towards sex.  For what it’s worth, it’s not your fault.  You can blame mommy dearest for proving that no orifice is off-limits.  Let’s say you embrace your porn-enriched heritage, well then you just end up as a slut.  So, door number 3 says that you can choose to be all sweet, innocent, and conservative and live a clean life, but even that has pitfalls.  In her heyday, fake boobs or not, your mom was pretty hot.  If you end up being hot, then being sweet and wholesome may end up working against you.  You can’t be a librarian, nurse, schoolteacher, housecleaner, masseuse, dental hygienist, or cable repairperson, cuz you’d just end being a “sexy-whatever.”  And it doesn’t help that your mom has probably portrayed a sexy-whatever in an adult film.  Basically, when you grow up, make sure to thank your mom for putting her vergina on public display.

To the sons:

Let’s face it, you’re hosed.  Look, I’m just gonna come out and say it; you have what MIT has calculated to be a 1.873% chance of NOT being gay.  But, hey buddy, that’s practically 2%.  It’s the reality of the situation.  More men have seen the intricacies of your mom’s hoo-hah than any other hoo-hah that has come to pass.  Deal with it.  You basically have two options; develop one helluva sense of humor or become one kick-ass fighter.  For what its worth, there’s a pretty good chance that your father could be Tito Ortiz, which will help with the kicking-ass part, but will probably increase your chances of being gay.  Now whattaya say?  Why don’t you go outside with your mother and throw the ol’ balls around?  Ooh, sorry.  I mean ball, of course.  Well that was certainly embarrassing.  It was a Freudian slip.  A simple slip of her tongue.  Ah, jeez, there I go doing it again.

Ha-ha!

But really, in all seriousness, I suppose you can thank your lucky stars that your dad isn’t on camera honking a boat horn with his wang, and your mom isn’t on film almost dropping you onto the pavement, but at the end of day you are going to have come to grips with the reality that your mom, the contributor of half of your chromosomes, spent years making fuck for a living.  Let me know how that turns out.

Have fun, kids.

Good-fucking-luck, (ok, sorry, that was the last one)

The Baron