(That means you, bitch. You know who you are. You and your booger-eating spawn.)

February 25

Dear Diary,

Jenny was being a bitch today so I got drunk and taught the kid to replace the word “and” with “cumburger” every time he talks. She thought I was playing army men with him in the sand box, the twit. He’s autistic, what is he going to do, rock them to death? Win a decisive victory with his astonishing statistics skills? God, Cuervo is good, though it is starting to affect my pratfalls. I know nobody is paying me to do those anymore, and my dumbfuck wife says it’s pathetic like air guitar to do it alone, but it’s a hobby I don’t care to give up, and I don’t think it’s too much to ask that, when I get a little spastic watching Ace Ventura, that I not gash my melon on the corner of the coffee table. The old lady knew what she was getting into when she bought this sssmokin’ cow, and so did the tequila. Man, remember “smokin’”? I know you do, Diary. You, Jose, and Jeff Daniels are the only friends I have now.

I had to get out of the house today, if only to put some aural distance between me and super-mommy. I thought we could finally get on with our lives after the Lancet finally admitted that bodega medicine man Wakefield was letting his bullshit show to a felonious extent with that autism crap a dozen years ago, and maybe I could go back to making seizure comedies again. Then I see this headline, and my rubbery face twists into a grimace so antithetical to the laws of physics, the rest of my body interpreted it as being late for a round of crippling constipation, and is just about done catching up.

Jenny McCarthy In ‘Time’: I Fixed My Son’s Autism

You might imagine, Diary, the Andy Wakefield news would have made her shrivel up and dissolve like a salt-water doused wicked witch of the slugs, but Jenny is made of heartier imbecility than that. In a way, it’s admirable, not that it makes me want to drink any less. She designed, built, and captained the USS Dummy in some performance art expression of postpartum, and she is determined to go down with it. She’ll have to turn it into a submarine if she wants to keep playing doctor, all curing kids of incurable diseases and putting down the Rubella epidemic she’s trying to unleash. I asked her to play doctor with me, and the cunt didn’t even look at me before reading the part of a medical journal that told her what she wanted to hear and declared me an incurable retard. Hold on, let me take another shot.

She won’t give it up, dude. Every day someone asks Nurse HawthoRNe over there her thoughts on the connection between vaccines and autism, and she says something like, “Come and see our kids. Why won’t the CDC come and talk to the mothers, talk to the families? Then tell us there isn’t a link.” Because the CDC has better shit to do than interview a gaggle of knee-jerk diagnostic hystericals marshaled by an insufferable celebrity who is so devoted to the lie she drags her visibly despondent husband by the scrotes to any event she can wear an airbrushed dress to, despite all evidence to the contrary. Sometimes I envy Matthew Broderick; at least he knew what he was getting into with that banshee, eschewing the attentions of millions of spread legged Ferris Bueller devotees. I think I’ll become an activist against the vaccine directly related to buyer’s remorse.

“Evan couldn’t talk — now he talks. Evan couldn’t make eye contact — now he makes eye contact. Evan was anti-social — now he makes friends.” I didn’t even know that, I had to read it in the article. Great, now he can make eye contact with strangers int he park when he takes his little pecker out and plays with it because everyone lets him since he’s so retarded or whatever. And the little bastard can talk? Then why am I getting him Cheerios when he grunts and kicks me in the shins? I think she taught him to do that, that she’s turning my life into one big Truman Show that ends with me dying regretting I didn’t just do it myself, but she wants me to furnish some “proof.” Here’s proof: you’re an attention hungry castrating psycho who makes up for the fact that her cellulite won’t let you whore it up for the cameras any more, so you have to make up for your lack of talent by being the god of all parenting.

I’ll let you in on a secret, Diary. The kid doesn’t even have autism, and it wasn’t the vaccine that made the baby all cuckoo for claw hands. Jenny was just worried about her cooch stretching, and crushed his head a few thousand times doing these super-kegels she read about in a Susanne Somers grocery store impulse buy book. I have a theory that they’re the same person, because you’d think they’d be bros, having celebrity advice Tourette’s in common, but I have never seen them in the same place. I told Time Magazine, “She’s a mom. That’s what she is. That’s her truth.” So you know, Diary, that’s code for, “At least she’s quiet once a year when she gives me half a beej before giving up because it’s too much work.” Sometimes I wake up and catch her diddling the kid looking for hemorrhoids she can blame on margarine or seesaw paint or something. If there’s one unspoken law in America, it’s that showing your cunt in Playboy is the equivalent of an honorary doctorate.

They’re looking at me all weird for writing in a diary in the bar, and some hairy biker just asked if I fall like a sissy with epilepsy when I get hit in real life too, so I’ll have to put you down now. I’m going to go drink until Morgan Freeman and Horton the Elephant visit me in my happy place.