I expect I’ll be raked over the coals by the cable news networks as a sleazy, money-grubbing opportunist, but it doesn’t change the cold hard fact: I am the father of Anna Nicole Smith’s baby.
No doubt in one of the many multinational court battles, sure to be fought over our innocent child’s paternity and custody, some smarmy trial lawyer will bring up the fact that I never met Anna Nicole, or that my DNA doesn’t match the child or that I never made a claim for paternity before. Let’s just say that I always thought it was just a dream, too – because no woman as beautiful as Anna Nicole Smith in her right mind would even consider coupling with an ugly, middle-aged troll like me.
But then, when I saw on the news the collection of creepy, ugly, middle-aged gargoyles who were claiming to have fathered her baby, I realized that maybe it wasn’t a fantasy, that maybe she really had been my lover, maybe on some other astral plane. My wife thinks I’m crazy as an astronaut, but the sleazy Bahamian lawyer I just hired seems quite optimistic.
I don’t care how much of Anna Nicole’s money it takes to provide for our child, I’m willing to spend it. If that means traveling the globe, staying in the finest hotels, eating in fancy restaurants, so be it. Money will be no object when it comes to that child’s health and happiness. I will spare no expense to find the most beautiful, big-breasted nannies for that baby that money can buy.
To keep nosy, intrusive reporters away from our child, I’ll buy the biggest house with the tallest garden walls in Beverly Hills. Armed guards? There will be plenty of them, damn the expense, this motherless child is worth it. I’m thinking of an all-female security force. Maybe a team of Amazon blondes, specially trained in martial arts and automatic weapons. I’ll design their uniforms myself. I see a lot of black leather, thigh-high boots and whips. Because of the nutty celebrity stalkers out there, you can’t be too careful. We’ll need a full-time cook to make food for the baby and the nannies and the security detail. And me. I love those Buffalo wings they have down at Hooters. Maybe I can hire some of their cooks.
I can’t tell you how much courage it takes to publicly admit that I fornicated with a gorgeous, rich, famous sex symbol. Actually, now that it’s out, I feel better about myself. A lot of the TV reporters are comparing her to Marilyn Monroe because Marilyn Monroe was a talented actress with a gift for light comedy, and Anna Nicole was blond. So, obviously, they were exactly alike.
And yet some people say reporters are shallow and lazy. Not when they’re trying to get to the Bahamas in the middle of winter, they’re not. Other reporters have compared her to Princess Di, because like Di, Anna Nicole did a lot of charity work. Princess Di worked with landmine victims and AIDS organizations, whereas Anna Nicole’s charity work was more personal – apparently sleeping with men who were never going to get any sex if it weren’t for her, which is why the world loved her, I guess.
Sometimes you really don’t miss a person until they’re gone. I know, except for our astral relationship, I rarely thought about her. Days, weeks, years even, would go by when she wouldn’t cross my mind, but now that she’s gone, I see her all around me.
I know many people will doubt my claim, they may think I’m a lazy, pathetic gold-digger and that I’m just saying I’m the father of her child just so I can get my hands on her estate. But the truth is I want nothing but the best for our little what’s-her-name.

Jim Mullen is the author of “It Takes a Village Idiot: Complicating the Simple Life” and “Baby’s First Tattoo.” You can reach him at jim_mullen@myway.com
Copyright 2007, Newspaper Enterprise Assn.