BABIES!!!

Because making your first public appearance in the pages of a magazine is so average (see: Suri in Vanity Fair), Blue Ivy Carter has graced the eyes of the masses for the first time on her own Tumblr page and she's already a genius since she scribbled this handwritten note out:

We welcome you to share in our joy. Thank you for respecting our privacy at this time in our lives.
-The Carter Family.

I think we can all exhale now that we know that Beyonce's genes won the battle. I see a whole lot of Mama Tina and even a drop of Ashanti (that's for all you pillow baby conspiracy theorists). I also see a little bit of my Salvadoran tia after she got all her hair chopped off at Supercuts, but that's a story for another day. Speaking of hair, that baby has so much of it! That baby's hair is laid like Jesus. Or she could already be fooling us all by having the best lace front in the game.

But seriously, I'm a little disappointed by these pictures of our new messiah. I mean, where's her halo halo?

In a hospital room in L.A. somewhere, a newborn baby is staring into the face of Iron Man while secretly wishing that his daddy will introduce him to ScarJo's magnificent chichi balls. People says that Robert Downey Jr.'s wife Susan birthed out a 7lb 5oz, 20-inch long (because I know you were wondering how long their baby is) baby son in L.A. this morning. RDJ has been Sherlock Holmes for way too long, because the motherfucker thinks he's British now. RDJ and Susan named their new baby friend Exton Elias. EXTON ELIAS. Exton is going to coo in a British accent, will force his nanny to push his stroller on the left side of the sidewalk and has probably already been knighted as a Sir by Queen Elizabeth.

Exton is RDJ and Susan's first kid together. He has an 18-year-old son named Indio. RDJ's rep said this generic shit to People:

“Everyone is healthy and they couldn’t be happier."

Just once I'd like the rep to say that everyone is sick, miserable and hating each other.

When I say the name "Exton" out loud, it sort of sounds like the name of a driver on Downton Abbey or like the name of a rejected Harry Potter character. But when I say it in my head, it sounds like the name of a discount oil company that is hoping cross-eyed hos and drunk bitches mistake the name of their gas station for EXXON. And you know the kids are going to call him Sexton.

This is Kaia Gerber and thanks to a whole lot of hard work, determination and tirelessly showing up to go-see after go-see, she has finally landed an ad campaign for Versace Kids. Oh, erase that first part. What I really mean is that Kaia was born out of the correct vagina and is one of the only kids on earth who doesn't cry for Lord Jesus to save them when Donatella Versace rides onto the set in a chariot made from the bones of the children who crossed her. So Kaia got the job!

Kaia, who is what you get when Cindy Crawford and Rande Gerber mate, makes her modeling debut in the Versace Kids campaign, and Donatella said in a press release that Kaia did so well that not once did she think of sucking the youthful innocence out of that child to feed the dark organ of death in her chest:

"Like her mother, Kaia has a very special gift. The camera really, really loves her. Having Cindy on-set for the shoot took me back to all the amazing Avedon shoots we worked on together. It was such a special treat watching Kaia walk in her mother's footsteps!"

First of all, I'd grab a vat of holy water and throw it at Donatella's face if she put socks AND sandals on my child's feet. Socks and sandals are only okay if you're a Riverside County frat boy going to the liquor store to buy Red Bull and chewing tobacco.

Second of all, I suffered through HOURS (like 8) of Barbizon lessons and do you see "Young Versace ad campaign" in my modeling resume that doesn't exist?! This makes sense, though. Barbizon was a BarbiJOKE. Case in point: The highlight of any Barbizon class was going to 7-Eleven for a snack. We'd take a break from learning how to do the "bite the sunglasses" pose (like this) and we'd go to 7-Eleven. We were all kids with $2 in our hands so we'd all buy candy. Then we'd sit on the curb and eat the candy in front of our professional modeling teachers. And not ONCE did these supposed professional modeling teachers tell us to immediately barf out that candy in the toilet. See, a total joke of a modeling school.

The latest woman to take the Grammer last time, Kayte Walsh Grammer, is a new ginger and she's also got an adorable blank check baby growing in her uterus (Connected? I think fucking so!) Kayte miscarried in 2010, so this time Kelsey's rep waited until her second trimester to announce to the world that he's about to add a future member of his Child Support Club. People puts it like this:

This will be the fifth child for the Boss star, 56, and the first for Walsh Grammer, 32.

Grammer is already dad to son Jude, 7, and daughter Mason, 10, with Camille Grammer, Greer, 19, with Barrie Buckner, and Spencer, 28, with Doreen Alderman. He’s also grandfather to Spencer’s son Emmett, 3 months.

Five babies with FOUR baby mamas? Who does Frasier think he is? My dad? No, Frasier is nothing like my dad. My dad's idea of paying child support was buying me a factory defected acid wash jean jacket from Miller's Outpost. (Not-So-Fun Fact: My arch rival at SCATS, a gymnastics place and not a donkey punch emporium, stole that jacket from me in the locker room.) Anyway, congrats to Kayte for securing herself a child support check when her marriage eventually ends in a minute or so. Hopefully, Kayte names her baby CamilleYourChildSupportChecksJustGotSmallerBitch Grammer.

The sound of a South American surrogate screeching out the words "Poner la epidural en él!!!" (Note: Shit translation provided by Google) followed by the faint sound of velcro ripping off was heard around the air space of Lenox Hill in NYC last night when the rightful heir to the House of Derriere throne was born. Yes, that is the reason why your lacefront floated off of your head last night before quickly falling to the floor like it was bowing. It was paying homage to its new Yaki Savior!

The entire Internet prepared for the golden age after the likes or RiRi, Auntie Basement Baby and Russell Simmons Tweeted the birth of Beyonce and Jay-Z's first child, a daughter. Beyonce and Jay-Z have kept their lips shut about this, because they like to confirm shit the real STUNT QUEEN way. You will really know that the golden child here is when Beyonce opens the Grammys next month by riding in on adorned camel (Jay-Z) and placing her daughter in a manger made of golden weaves as back-up dancers dressed like slutty farm animals do the Single Ladies dance around them.

As for the name, E! News has come up with Blue Ivy and UsWeekly says it's Ivy Blue (cut to LeAnn Rimes in a bikini neighing out the words, "Did somebody say Bluuuuuuuu-ooooh-ooh?". I know both of those names sound like the name of an Eastern European porn star who is trying to make it in the US, but it has REAL meaning! Beyonce and Jay-Z slobber all over the number 4. They were both born on the 4th and they were married on the 4th. IV = 4. (Sidenote: That surrogate is never going to surrogate in this town AGAIN, because bitch was supposed to push out Baby Blue Ivy on the 4th. BABY OVEN FAIL!)

And even though Beyonce and Jay-Z rented out the entire fourth floor of Lenox Hill, forced all employees to hand over their cell phones and taped over the security cameras to keep hos from getting a picture of the new Jesus, Dlisted managed to get an EXCLUSIVE first look at Blue Ivy:

No, no. Princess Blue Ivy will make her picture debut on the cover of a limited-edition version of the Bible. (The cover of People Magazine is for peons.) Check your local pew!

High Priestess Whitney was right when she preached that the children are our future and now it looks like our future is going to be every shade of ESCANDALOSO, because my homewrecking queen Sienna Miller has got a uterus full of fetus. UsWeekly says that the retired MPV-winning man thief and her boyfriend of a year Tom Sturridge (the fancy Skid Row resident she's puckering on in the picture above) will be parents to a hipster baby in a few months. If Peaches Geldof getting knocked up wasn't reason enough to start digging your 2012 underground bunker, then this news will be enough. SHOVELS OUT!

Sienna's rep hasn't confirmed any of this, but one of her loud mouth friends told UsWeekly, "They just spent the holidays in Paris together after they announced the news in London. [Their] were not surprised by the news of the pregnancy. They're really good together."

That baby is going to be such a damn hipster. It's going to come out of Sienna Miller's former bulldozer vagina in a vintage Liz Claiborne cape (True Story: I was in a Salvation Army in Greenpoint and heard some dirty hipster ask if they had any Liz Claiborne brand capes), an American Spirit in its mouth, the scent of patchouli wafting off of it and a monocle over its eye (because it will be a monocle-wearing baby before monocle-wearing babies are the thing). I just hope Sienna teaches her hipster baby everything she knows about relationships. Like age is nothing but a number and a wedding ring is nothing but something that will give your genitals an extra tingle while your married piece fingers you. A wedding ring is sort of like a cock ring for your finger!

But if it's true that kids turn out the opposite of their parents, then Sienna's child will probably care about the importance of bathing as much as it cares about respecting the marital vows of others. BOOOOOO!

In the director's cut of We Need To Talk About Kevin, we learn that the movie takes place in the future and that Tilda Swinton actually bought the psychotic Kevin in the parking lot of a 7-Eleven in Connecticut from a dirty, raggedy hipster homeless-looking couple who turned out to be Peaches Geldof and her fiancé Thomas Cohen (<---- This doesn't happen in the director's cut of WNTTAK). And now it's all coming true in real life! Peaches' rep told The Mirror this morning that the womb bag in her body that used to store old heroin sludge and pieces of her liver is not carrying a fetus.

"Peaches Geldof and her fiance Thomas Cohen are delighted to announce that Peaches is pregnant with their first child.

Peaches is utterly thrilled and they have the full support of both of their families who are equally excited for the baby's arrival."

There are only two good things that can come out of this. The first one is that Peaches is twisted in the brains so she's obviously going to fuck up her baby's life by giving it a name that sounds like the name of an STD that only affects My Little Ponies. I'm thinking Nectarine Foofy Bomb. The second is that Nectarine Foofy Bomb will inherit its father's fashion sense, because this world definitely needs more toddlers who dress like a 1980s late-in-life lesbian gym teacher going to a Woody Allen film class at a community college.

I hope they name it "Sobakawa Carter." Beyonce has reportedly checked into NYC's St. Luke's Roosevelt Hospital on the Upper West Side to unstrap that BABIES!!! stand-in pillow. I kid, because unless she's been eating her and husband Jay-Z's weight in Taco Bell as a cover, she's got to be with child.

CBS News (by way of Media Takeout) says that a "celebrity VIP" is taking up half of the hospital's labor and delivery suite. It's supposed to be big enough to fit "three deliveries and a dozen overnight guests". Camera crews to record every second of this baby's birth for photo sales take up a shitload of room!

We will keep you posted. Or Sweetas and I will. Michael K. just texted us from an Italian jail. He didn't get arrested, he's just there looking for especially skeevy dick.

If this IS some faked pregnancy shit, I have questions. How in hell are they going to sneak that illegal immigrant girl into the hospital and fix her under Beyonce so it looks like the actual human child is coming out of Sasha Fierce's wooka and not the surrogate's? This poor thing has been holed up in a secret apartment under the pseudonym of "LeToya Luckett" and now she's about to meet B face-to-back-of-head! There's going to be some slapstick juggling when they try to get that Serta Memory Foam Pillow Beyonce has had strapped to her out of the way so they can hand Jay-Z the baby. You be sure and get that check for going through all this fuckery, illegal immigrant broodmare girl!

Dido's name is an “l” away from being Dildo and her music has always sounded like a white girl Sade to me, so I had not one bad thing to say about her ass until now. The only esteemed news source of truth I trust, the Daily Mail, says that Dido birthed out a baby boy last July and she has named him Stanley. As in Stan, as in that Enimen song about a crazed murderous stalker, which samples her song, Thank You. I see what you did there, Dido! I also see her little son Stanley cooing this out in his crib: “Aaaaand Iiiiiiii want to thank you….for giving me the worst naaaaame of my liiii-iiiii-iiiiife.”

According to the Daily Mail, Baby Stan is Dido’s first baby friend with her husband of 2 years Rohan Gavin. They’ve been living a shush life somewhere in North London together.

Okay, I was joking about the “one bad thing to say” shit. Maybe it’s because I’m running on 2 hours of sleep and prosecco bubbles are powering whatever is left of my brain, but this shit is pulling the laughs out from my ass. Dido named her son Stan knowing that every bitch would think she named him after a song about an Eminem stalker. I’m sure Dido and Baby Stan will laugh about this as soon as he’s old enough to understand fuckery. Let’s just hope they aren’t laughing about it while she’s tied up in his trunk and he’s about to drive the car into the river.

A shiny brand new newborn baby should be calling 68-year-old Robert De Niro "PEPAW!!!" instead of "Daddy?" but the latter is what's going down in the De Niro house this holiday weekend. Because Robert's old ass and his wife Grace Hightower are parents to a baby girl born via a leased baby oven. The baby girl has a 13-year-old brother named Elliot and a bunch of half-siblings including 40-year-old Drena, 35-year-old Raphael and 16-year-olds Julian and Aaron.

Now, when my ass is 68, I want to be drunk on my porch and throwing rotten lemons at the shit-nosed brats driving their stupid ugly bikes on my lawn. I want to be a mean old cunt who's not afraid to show it. I don't want to be pulling my damn hip muscle while rocking my wailing baby to sleep at 3 in the morning. That shit ain't the life. But if that's how Robert wants to spend the Werther's Originals phase of his life, who am I to judge (I'm totally judging)?

But the best part is what Robert and Grace named their baby friend. Their rep tells People that her name is Helen Grace De Niro. Not only does Helen Grace De Niro sound like the name of a Catholic school head mistress who secretly moonlights as a lounge singer, but Helen Grace is also the name of the chocolate company that makes the most delicious fudge Easter eggs your stomach has ever digested.

These chocolate Easter eggs were serious business in my elementary school. Every year, we fought to death to sell as many as possible. It was like the middle-class suburban version of The Hunger Games. We killed each other for that shit, because the prizes were legendary. One year, I came in 5th place thanks to my mother forcing everyone at work to buy at least 3 and the prize was nothing like I have ever known before. The five of us (yes, I was last place, of course) all got into a limo and it took us on a journey of culinary pleasures. We stopped at Carl's Jr. for appetizers (fries), then pulled into the gourmet garden of desires that is McDonald's for entrees (Big Mac) and cleansed our palate at the Michelin-starred Baskin-Robbins. It will go down as the most luxurious experience of my life. For such a glamorous occasion, I wore my finest outfit which was a white turtleneck, a black chunky cardigan from Mervyn's and pleated black pants. I was dressed like an Eastern European lesbian tennis star going to a hearing to face charges of steroid abuse.

I even got to take a picture in front of the hot limo while wearing the hottest outfit I've ever owned. If my ass ever goes missing and the police ask you for a picture, please give them the one of my 10-year-old self awkwardly standing in front of that limousine. I look nothing like that anymore, but I only want people to see me in my most glamorous moment.

And I'm sure Robert's Helen Grace is as precious the Helen Grace Easter eggs I sold in order to live like Alexis Carrington for an afternoon.