A Strongly Worded Letter to Kimye’s Fetus

Dear Kimye's Fetus,

Just as we were feeling relieved about the apocalypse that never came and were officially ready to declare the death of the phrase 'end of the world', we realized that apparently the apocalypse has ways of mutating, like Alex Mack or HIV. We have another terrifying global crisis on our hands and it's obviously not the fucking fiscal cliff. We're talking to you, the real life Million Dollar Baby. Whether it's your mom's sonogram instas or your inevitable spinoff, you already dominate the entertainment news, Fetus, and we can totally wait nine months till you come and greet us…all because somebody actually let Kanye finish.

Fetus, we don't know if you're a boy or a girl yet and frankly we don't care, because your dad's fondness for skorts gives us a sneaking suspicion you'll be shopping in the pink section of the layette boutique, penis or no penis. But hey, at least you'll be tan as fuck. Whatever, we obviously know your name will be the same, regardless of your sex. And we're pretty certain it won't be Stewart, Tom, or Judy.

And though we know you're still just like a blob of stem cells that could probably be used to cure Khloe's infertility issue, no one has ever accused your mom of being generous to her sister or your dad of letting someone else have the spotlight. So here you come Baby, racing the Middleton kid towards the covers of People and US. And we have no doubt whatsoever you'll arrive “just in time” for the next season finale. You just better hope you pop out #5 skinny enough to get a playdate with Blue Ivy, because everyone knows that bitch is booked till late 2015.

Ugh…You're going to be so hairy,

The Betches


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