Babies advice

Oh, hello -- I didn't see you come into my dark demesne! I'm Azmodeus, the black deity of misery and suffering. I was thumbing through my copy of "UsWeekly" here in the lower bowels of the Bottomless Pit and I came to this little number about Britney Spears being preggers again. Wonderful! Congratulations, mom and dad! And so soon after little Sean Preston -- new, unnamed baby makes four!

Yes, the news certainly brought a smile to my leathery, cold, grime-encrusted visage. There's nothing Azmodeus loves to hear about more than bouncing baby boys and girls brought into the world by incapable, immature, emotionally-retarded quasi-adults. Why, just the other day I was cleaving the souls of the damned in twain with my mighty war-axe when I heard about little Preston Sean falling out of his "defective" (*wink-wink*) baby seat. Well done!

I had been coasting on the gratitude I've felt towards Lynne Spears for masochistically pushing her daughters into the white-hot glare of the spotlight, just to see them debase themselves sexually and disintegrate under the withering scrutiny of our pop culture apparatus. Watching Britney walk barefoot into public restrooms and soothe her tortured psyche with Red Bull and Cheetos was just a bonus. Ah yes, Azmodeus was pleased -- but Britney finding that suburban poseur back-up dancer? That was enough to allow a single black-oil tear to escape my atrophied lachrymose duct.

So, I say huzzah to the couple! Azmodeus would love to see a large brood growing up in that Malibu spread: Scads of children, all suffering emotional neglect and questionable hygiene (and perhaps borderline physical abuse). Let me say business hasn't been this good since Bruce Willis and Demi Moore starting dropping overfed, entitled little wastrels into the world back in the ’80s.

Of course, this is all just a mere aperitif to whet my appetite for the day when little Frances Bean Cobain learns to spawn. Oh lucky day!