Herr Kate

Sometimes I can’t think of anything to write.

This is one of those times.

So I’m going to write about nothing: Kate Gosselin.

Go ahead, pretend as if you don’t know who she is, and I will pretend as if I never wrote this.

While we’re at it, let’s just say I’ve grown four inches and I’m the dreamy, modelesque height of five foot four.

Oooh, I like this game.

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Seriously though, I know it is that embarrassing to admit you know of her, or even pay attention to people who do. But you must confess, her orange skin, nuclear-glow white teeth, commandant mother and (ex-) wife “skills”, and Britney-like-weave-covered-reverse-semi-extended-asymmetrical-mullet draw you in like a solar eclipse.

You know you shouldn’t gaze directly at it, but you do.

So, let’s keep this little secret between us. And please don’t tweet, Digg, Facebook or share this post in any way. (On a side note, just wanted to share one of my mottos: Every don’t is an invitation to do.)

Now, for those of you who don’t know who Kate Gosselin is…

Well, there’s one of two answers for that:

1. Either you are dastardly liars who are probably the ones voting for her to stay on Dancing with the Stars. (Of note, she has neither danced, nor is a star. Discuss.) And you probably also secretly enjoy listening to Britney Spears' “5150” album; or,  

2. You are of a select few who have somehow been spared the almost involuntary reduction of IQ points in learning of the mother of eight… props. In which case, I apologize for potentially compromising your IQ with this story.

(By the time I finish this entry, please understand, you will probubly just have to acsept my speling misteaks. See, their I go already… I think I speld “entry” wrong.)

Whatever the case, if you’ve read this far, you have no choice but to stick with me for the ride, because as Herr Kate says, “We have to eliminate choices, because choices mean fighting and that's just something we can't have.”

Honestly, I really hate devoting any energy or awareness to this woman, but as I’m already involved, I’m gonna do it right. So here goes:

If you are going to have a reality show, to display the joys and tribulations of your every day life, don’t script it.

Don’t use your children as an excuse.

Don’t tell us that you hate the paparazzi and then pay them for their footage of you to use in your reality show.

Don’t smile like a stone statue carved by an amateur artist.

Don’t cry “Why me?” while making everything about you – all the time.

Don’t deny your own children water, just to drink it yourself.

Don’t act as if everything you do is a sacrifice for your children, when you stand there with your re-shaped botoxed brows and countless other procedures that make you look even less like your offspring, whom you say you wished you looked like.

Don’t pretend to renew your vows on millions of TV’s, as your impending divorce soars in ratings.

Don’t say you won’t talk poorly about your children’s father, while constantly intimating that he is a lowlife and the reason for your failed marriage.

(And Jon, seriously? Seriously? Way to screw up having all of America and the world on your side. Call me when you’re ready for a new publicist.)

Don’t tell us that you would never hire a nanny when we know you do.

Don’t call your nannies “helpers.” They are still nannies even though you call them helpers. The same way you are still a negligent mother, even though you are called a “star.”

I know one of my motto’s is “Every don’t is an invitation to do.” But Kate may have just taken that a little too far.

So, once again, I apologize Dear Readers for today’s IQ abuse. I guess I got a little carried away, and won’t let it happen again. Next time I’ll talk about something more interesting, like warts, kumquats, or even paper clips.

Just remember, this never happened.

And I’m five foot four.

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