A sordid tale of drinking, skiing and sex
OK, I’m fessing up here. I am the father of Anna Nicole’s Baby. That’s right, little what’s-his-name (or her name?) sprang from my loins. It happened while we were doing the dirty; I thought you should know that Anna Nicole and I did it. Anyway, I just can’t wait to see him/her, and already love it as if it were … well, never mind. I think I’ll look great on TV, and can’t wait to find out if the mother, the one I “did,” has any of that old guy’s money left.It all started about this time last year. Anna (or was it Hanna?) was in town for the World Cup races, and was a prohibitive favorite to win. I happened to stop by the Woody Creek Tavern for a pop the night before the race. There was Annette, drunk as an owl and sinking fast. I put my arm around her to prevent her from hitting the deck, a risky move to pull with a woman one has never met, but I felt it was the gentlemanly thing … hmmm, fleshy. Of course I recognized her as one of the premier racers on the women’s circuit, so I asked her what the hell she was doing getting shitfaced the night before a race. She told me it was a trick she had learned from one of the guys on the men’s team, someone named Obie. I asked her if she had tried it before with any success? She said no, but Obie was a star and if it worked for him, it should work for her. I was dubious. Naturally one thing led to another, and Lana ended up coming back to my cabin with me. What happened next isn’t fit for a family newspaper and would probably earn a XXX rating in hell, so I’ll spare you the details. Well, before dawn Alice stopped doing something I found particularly interesting, popped up and slurred, “Ife gutta go!” Of course, I had to understand – it was “race day.” Amanda negotiated the stairs down from my bedroom, groping for handholds all the way. She found her wrap, made from the skins of baby leopards, hanging off my gargoyle where she’d chucked it in her understandable and uncontrollable eagerness to disrobe. Slipping into the fur, she stepped out into the darkness, naked but for the coat.”Hey you,” I shouted, “don’t you want the rest of your clothes, your underwear?””I gud” she called back.”Need a lift?” I offered.”I gud,” she replied, disappearing into the snowy predawn gloom. “OK. I’ll get a few more Z’s. Bye.” I knew then and there that I would love Anna Beth forever, and if there was a child, I would love that child and want to be a father to him/her/it.I set the alarm and went back to bed. Two hours later I woke, feeling great. I had been “very good” the night before, no hangover. I was covering the race for the Christian Science Monitor and wanted to get to the mountain early to get my press credentials and get up to the course.I loaded on to the gondola with a bunch of racer-chasers and before I knew it, I was skiing down to the top of the course in the high-speed snowplow that I learned when I took a lesson from Stein. There in the starting gate was my beloved Anna Nicole; her face was almost totally obscured by her helmet and goggles, but something in her body language told me that not everything was right. I turned to bellow at a gatekeeper to fetch me a hot cocoa and when I turned back, Alice had mysteriously disappeared. A wave of panic swept over me. Adele, my love …I moved closer to the starting gate, and there was Amy, out cold, face down in a pool of what might have been the contents of her stomach. I was devastated; it looked like a career-ender. Even more heartbreaking were the cruel comments of some of the other racers, the Europeans being the worst. I heard snarls of “white trash” in a number of their filthy foreign tongues (most of which I speak fluently-ish). Anna Beth was loaded onto a sled, and there was a brief mélée when a number of ski patrollers fought over who was going to take her down. My world was collapsing on me.That was the last time I saw my beloved what’s-her-name in the flesh. I’ve followed her career and the progress of her legal battles on Entertainment Tonight, and I’ve swamped her publicist with the tenderest of e-mails. My love seems to have moved south.There’s been loose talk in some trendy Beverly Hills watering holes that my dearest is denying the paternity of our child, that she has no recollection of our meeting or the circumstances surrounding our baby’s conception. It breaks my heart, and this is the reason I’m coming forward with my story at this time. To help others avert this kind of tragedy is my only desire. So please consider this a cautionary tale, and if you take just one thing away from my sad story, let it be this: Never drink the night before skiing.Merry Christmas.
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