I THINK YOU MIGHT BE MY DADDY, MICHAEL LOHAN
Dear Michael,
Let’s get down to business. I think you might be my daddy.
You know, daddy, it was the little things that tipped me off – the way our eyes have a similar little twinkle, the way my mom said that you were 100% my biological father. You remember my mother, right? She told me all about that fateful night – she was young and naïve; you were going through your obligatory “short Jewish chick” phase.
“Who does your birth certificate state as your father?” you may ask. Actually, I imagine you might sound more like, “BirbCerbllificateEverclearMakesThePainGoAwayWasThatHookerAMan?” Anyway, my birth certificate is signed in illegible blue Crayola. It looks like someone tried to drunkenly fight it. And, while I’m not positive about the mechanics of fighting a piece of paper, it looks like the birth certificate may have won. All signs point to you, daddy.
The way my life is going, I don’t think anyone could deny that we’re related, daddy. I’ve been to rehab twenty-eight times. It’s not so bad, though: they do validate parking. I also definitely inherited the Lohan musical skills: I was voted my juvenile hall’s Most Talented Singer/Larcenist/Songwriter eight years in a row! You would have been so proud, daddy.
I promise I’m not doing this for the fame, though it would be cool to make People’s “Top Ten Lohan Bastards” issue. I truly want to get to know you and the other members of the Lohan family. I can see it now: Lindsay and I would compare ankle monitor tans. Dina would teach me how to bedazzle a Xanax. It could be so great, daddy.
In conclusion, I’ll expect my first child support check within the next couple of days, daddy. If you’re ever short on cash, don’t worry – you can always pay me in fatherly love! Or “Fatherly Love,” my favorite type of Burmese heroin.
Love,
Your Daughter,
Megan
Let’s get down to business. I think you might be my daddy.
You know, daddy, it was the little things that tipped me off – the way our eyes have a similar little twinkle, the way my mom said that you were 100% my biological father. You remember my mother, right? She told me all about that fateful night – she was young and naïve; you were going through your obligatory “short Jewish chick” phase.
“Who does your birth certificate state as your father?” you may ask. Actually, I imagine you might sound more like, “BirbCerbllificateEverclearMakesThePainGoAwayWasThatHookerAMan?” Anyway, my birth certificate is signed in illegible blue Crayola. It looks like someone tried to drunkenly fight it. And, while I’m not positive about the mechanics of fighting a piece of paper, it looks like the birth certificate may have won. All signs point to you, daddy.
The way my life is going, I don’t think anyone could deny that we’re related, daddy. I’ve been to rehab twenty-eight times. It’s not so bad, though: they do validate parking. I also definitely inherited the Lohan musical skills: I was voted my juvenile hall’s Most Talented Singer/Larcenist/Songwriter eight years in a row! You would have been so proud, daddy.
I promise I’m not doing this for the fame, though it would be cool to make People’s “Top Ten Lohan Bastards” issue. I truly want to get to know you and the other members of the Lohan family. I can see it now: Lindsay and I would compare ankle monitor tans. Dina would teach me how to bedazzle a Xanax. It could be so great, daddy.
In conclusion, I’ll expect my first child support check within the next couple of days, daddy. If you’re ever short on cash, don’t worry – you can always pay me in fatherly love! Or “Fatherly Love,” my favorite type of Burmese heroin.
Love,
Your Daughter,
Megan
posted by Megadeth at 2:21 PM
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