Celebrity Baby Snatchers, Part One

A Call to Arms

I don’t know, maybe it’s because I haven’t been alive for ALL that long, but I feel like our society has reached a place where it is far more obsessed with its celebrities than ever before. It’s pretty hard to figure out which came first, the chicken or the egg that hatched into this drunken mess of a generation of famous folks who REFUSE to wear underwear. I mean, honestly, with all that money you’d expect that those who will remain unnamed (ahem LindsaySiennaBritneyDanielRadcliffe) could afford a pair of panties. I don’t even care if it’s a tie-dye pink sparkly thong. I’m just dying for a little cover-up.
Anyway, not the point. There are so many websites, magazines, even television shows devoted entirely to celebrities and most of them focus on the biggest wastoids of them all. The host of said television shows (who, in all honesty, is a little sad that there are no articles in US Weekly about him this week except for perhaps that gratuitous B-List celebrity photo that shows the host posing and looking cheesy next to an assistant editor wayyyy in the front by the masthead) will display a montage of the most unflattering shots of the train-wreck-of-the-moment and afterwards will cock his head and sigh, “Isn’t that sad?” And the TV-viewing public will sigh right after in chorus and think, “Poor thing. If only she wasn’t forced into the spotlight and swallowed up by the vile, amoral Hollywood executives. Her haircut is so bad. She doesn’t look well. Is that her boob? Why doesn’t she just get herself together? Somebody ought to help that girl.” Schadenfraude rules.
You know what, TV-viewing public? You’re right, which is weird because whenever I picture you I feel like you’re on a big couch in your entirely brown living room somewhere in the Midwest eating Cheetos and waiting for Sunday’s “Save Yourself from Satan” Ball at the local Mega-Mall-Church. But you know what? You have a point, even though it’s a little hypocritical because you, too, exposed your breast at the biker bar last week. (God, I can’t stop talking about you! Maybe YOU should be famous! Fuck an agent! Let’s face it: a good tit shot is all one really needs these days.) But let’s think harder, here, people. Perhaps this generation is too far gone. Perhaps it’s the next one we ought to worry about, and this is exactly why I’ve decided to take this matter into my own hands with a group I would like to officially name the Celebrity Baby Rescuers (CBR).
That’s right, folks. No longer will you have to sit on the train and read an article about little Suri Cruise and think, while wiping the tear from your face, “Gosh, I feel so helpless. I just wish there was something I could do. Is Tom really that short?” No longer will you have to listen to a famous woman weep to Barbara Walters and claim that she doesn’t understand the criticism because motherhood is her number one pry-oar-i-tay while you throw meat at the screen and scream, “SHUT UP YOU LYING BITCH!” No longer will you have to sit through an entire lunch where you could be talking about your own problems but instead have to listen to your friends run down the list of famous juvenile delinquents and ask over and over again, “Where is her mother?” You can do something. Become one of us, a group of vigilante baby-snatchers who plan to rescue the children and babies of countless celebrities whose parenting you’ve been judging forever.
Since I am the founder of CBR (even though there were people present when I came up with the idea, it was me, as in a moment of stoned brilliance I went to write it down in my notebook and foolishly answered the question of, “Hey, whatchyou…hehehe…writing?”), I’ll give you a brief explanation of my vision. First, we’ll need to recruit some folks to join our team. Obviously there’s me and, to placate those who were there so they won’t try to steal my glory or creative control of the brand name once we go global, my three female friends who were present the night of the founding. After that I think anyone who has an interest in human rights or criminal activity, you know, either/or, will be welcome, though I’m not seeing much of a place for anyone too squeamish as we’re going to be dealing with some freaky looking people. No time to get frozen like a deer in silicone headlights. We need people who are quick on their feet and ready for action. Of course, we’ll need two or three big dudes for intimidation effect. I’m going to suggest the Olsen twins’ bodyguards. They’re humungonormous. Have you SEEN these men? I honestly don’t even think it’s because the twins are small, either. I just think the bodyguards are that gigantic.
After we’ve found these brave, select few, we’ll all have to relocate to Los Angeles because that’s where the bad celebrity parents are. Think about New York celebrity parents: Sarah Jessica and Matthew Broderick, Maggie Gyllenhaal and Peter Saarsgard, Gwyneth Paltrow and Chris Martin (kinda), Michelle Williams and Heath Ledger. They’re all “normal” relative to their freakishly tanned west coast counterparts. Okay, so some of them border on paranoid and grungy in that “don’t look at me but look at me” kind of way, but it sure as hell beats totally incoherent and neglectful. So we will leave New York for the hills of LA as no one there has enough brain cells left after tanning-drinking-snorting to realize that either a) they are shitty parents or b) their client is a shitty parent. We’ll naturally have to hole ourselves up on some sort of Manson-esque compound, minus the mass murdering (thought not the hallucinogens), so that the cops won’t catch us (not that they’ll try, as they have bigger problems to deal with, plus every few months we’ll arrange for some distracting criminal activity. I plan on calling in a bomb threat to Miramax and then waiting outside and watching Harvey Weinstein run out squealing like a little girl.)
Our first attack, naturally, is Britney Spears. Now, time is of the essence here, people, as Brit-Brit JUST finalized her divorce with K-Fed and we’d like to get in there before either one of those morons has the time to bond with the children (because Lord knows, it certainly hasn’t happened up until this point). I predict this mission to be rather easy. We’ll have to get a helicopter (don’t worry, I got people) and fly over the Spears estate dropping buckets of fried chicken out of the window. Then Britney will run outside yelling, “Oh my gahwd, it’s raining fried chicken. CHICKEN FROM HEAVEN!” This is not my prediction. It is what will happen. Of course all of Britney’s staff (even the nannies) will follow her out in attempts to control her (they’ve been through a lot, guys, and just don’t want to see Brit BACKSLIDE like that.) Meanwhile, those of us who parachuted out near the back of the estate (I call that job) will rush in through the back door, find the kids Sean Preston and What’s-his-name, run out through the back door and back gate, where a getaway car will be waiting for us.
Too easy? Let’s remember that we’re not dealing with the upper echelon of intelligence here, especially not when it comes to childcare. Celebrities are very easily distracted and we will use this to the best of our advantage.
Okay the next celebrity family we need to ambush is one that has needed an intervention of this sort for a very, very long time: the Jacksons. Seriously, how has NO ONE tried to save these children yet? Okay, okay, so he was acquitted, but does anyone actually believe he was innocent? And even if he was innocent, isn’t a bit fucked up that the kids only appear in public with blankets and towels over their faces? That’s enough to scar a child for life.
“Daddy, why do I have to wear a towel over my face when I go outside?” Little Paris Jackson asks.
“Well, sweetheart, I need to protect you from all the people who want to look at you in the world, not to mention the spores the aliens release into our oxygen that goes in your brain and makes you hear the whispers, whispers…”
“But Daddy, I have to wear my towel inside and Michael Junior and Blanket don’t. Why is that?”
“That’s just because I like little boy faces better than little girl ones.”
Dear God, someone has to help these kids! If we don’t save them, then who will? Our first step in this mission will be to locate the Jackson family, as they often bounce from location to location. Research tells me they are currently living in Las Vegas, which is sad because I kind of wanted the opportunity to visit Dubai and see that fake world made of islands. This is a selfless endeavor, though, so Las Vegas it is. I think in this one we’ll have to use our whole team and set it up like a federal sting operation: just bust in the doors with big (fake, if the Iranians won’t cooperate with me) guns and just start screaming, “EVERYBODY GET DOWN!” Then we’ll grab the kids while Michael’s bodyguards try to deal with the fact that he’s lying on the ground in the fetal position whimpering, “No, Daddy, I’m sorry, I’ll sing for you! I’ll SING!” The whole towel thing will actually serve us well as we won’t have to worry too much about hiding the kids as no one will recognize them. We can take them to the park and they can play on the playground and do all those things they never got to do while living with “scary ghost man daddy.”
For sure the next priority will have to be little Suri Cruise. To be honest, I thought that kid would be heinous, but she’s actually rather cute, which does make me even more sympathetic to her plight (as un-PC as that is) of being stuck there in a house full of doubtlessly certifiable individuals. As many of us know from reading tabloids, the Cruise compound is on virtual lockdown and it’s nearly impossible to get in, so this mission won’t be nearly as easy as the last two were. This is the way I see this going down: first, two lucky team members will have to pretend to want to recruit to Scientology and take a little trip down to the center in LA and sit through some info sessions, maybe some torture and definitely some reprogramming (don’t worry, guys, we’ll re-reprogram you with marijuana and humorous readings of L. Ron Hubbard’s work, particularly passages that highlight his idea that “money is in starting religions”). Now, this will be hard, but we’ll need to figure out some way to get a private audience with Tom Cruise. I propose making up some bogus story about coming down off of Zoloft and wanting encouragement and advice from “a celebrity who knows the history of psychiatry.” And yes, I’m being glib.
The scientology center will then arrange for the two faux-recruits to pay a little visit to the compound where Tom will most likely jump on a couch and Katie will answer every question with, “I love it here.” Don’t look into her glazed eyes too long, brave soldiers, as it will make you sad and you will want to save little Joey Potter too but the bag you have won’t be big enough. See, while all this commotion is happening one of you will politely excuse yourself to use the restroom, find little Suri, stick her in a duffle bag, go back downstairs and then make up some excuse to leave such as, “You know? I’m thinking maybe I’ll go Kabbalah instead” and then hightail it out of there.

PART TWO: Sharon Stone's kid, the emergency that is Dannielynn Smith-Stern-Birkhead, and our favorite new expats.