Giving In

Like Bart Simpson at the blackboard, my mantra of late has been quite simple:

I will not blog.
I will not blog.
I will not blog.

My theory has always been that bloggers are simply people with both too much time on their hands as well as a sadistic desire to torture friends and complete strangers by making them succumb to the reading of their mindless ramblings. (This characterization, of course, does not include such worthwhile bloggers as my dear friend Cardinal Fang.)

But every so often, something so revolting, so distasteful, so singularly disturbing occurs that one cannot help but pray for a forum in which to vent. Today that something happened.

Apple.

Not Apple the computer, Apple the person. Apple the baby. Apple Blythe Alison Martin. Yes, friends, the progeny of the not-welcome-in-Australia Coldplay whiner Chris Martin and the unremarkable Gwyneth Paltrow has burst forth from her uterine Spandau and onto the world stage. What might otherwise be a blessed event is rather marred by the poor child being given what can only be described as the fruitiest prénom since Tiny Tim.

When I was first told this news, I naturally assumed that it was merely an error in the press due to sloppy reportage. Surely no self-respecting individual would name a child "Apple." One is supposed to love one's children, not ruin their lives forever with ridiculous names (Dweezil Zappa excepted). Who on earth, except perhaps Steve Jobs, would name a child "Apple"? One can only assume that poor Apple's publicity-grubbing parents selected the name just to grab a bit more media attention for themselves. Fuck them both for using a defenseless child for their sick, self-absorbed reasons. I'm surprised they didn't harvest the placenta for collagen injections.

The upshot of the whole story came when I read that Apple's birthweight was nine and a half pounds. Apple my ass. She should have named the fucking thing Watermelon.