I just want you to know that at no time has any agent affiliated with the TSA relieved me of either of my children during an airport security screening. This is kind of odd when you consider that until recently I traveled carrying Nestle infant formula liquid poison, Ben's diapers are filled not with highly absorbent gel but the somewhat explodier Semtex, and Charlie goes nowhere without his nipple ring.
If this is making no sense to you, hello! Welcome to my blog, where little that I say ever does. I'm referring to a story posted by a blogger claiming that TSA agents had separated her toddler son from her during a security screening, contrary to the TSA's stated policy. The TSA rebutted the story on its blog, posting video footage that appears to contradict several of the blogger's contentions, including the most upsetting, that her child had been taken out of her sight while she remained in the screening area.
Which makes me realize I should say a few things about truth. I solemnly assure you that here at executive headquarters of A Little Pregnant Global Amalgamated Light Industrial Concern, we operate under the highest standards of veracity and accountability. I will allow, however, that there may have been...certain assertions...I've made here in the past that might have been...left open to interpretation. Or misconstrued. Or misquoted. Misquoted! That's it. Yes, I wouldn't be at all surprised if now and again I've misquoted myself. We legitimate journalists bloggers do that.
So in the interest of correcting any perceived inaccuracies, I give you now the unvarnished truth, with my apologies for having misled you.
- My husband's name isn't Paul. It's actually Viggo. That's short for Vercingetorix and, Jesus, you should see him unify the Gauls.
- My boy/girl twins are not the result of IVF.
- I live not in a small New England town but in a climate-controlled glass sarcophagus that is kept in constant flight aboard a military aircraft maintained at a cruising altitude of 39,000 feet. The flight crew sleep in shifts, and when the plane is low on gas they do one of those aerial refueling maneuvers, thanks to a craft with a probe that looks not entirely unlike an airplane wang.
- All proceeds from my sidebar advertising actually get split evenly between the NRA and my get-a-portrait-of-Ted-Nugent-tattooed-on-my-breast fund.
- My infertility is not, in fact, unexplained. It turns out — funny story, remind me to tell you sometime — I'm actually a mule.
- It wasn't a breast pump. It was a penis pump. Oh, don't pretend you're surprised.
- You know, I like the cut of that William Saletan's jib. (As an aside, I regret mispronouncing his name as I Fucking Hate William Saletan. My apologies, my good sir. It turns out the I Fucking Hate is silent.)
- I didn't drink all the vodka I claimed to in any of my sadder posts. Actually it's been Windex.
- I only told you I had two C-sections because I didn't want you to suspect I carry within me a seductive, dark, invisible, undulating, moist pathway to conception and birth.
- IVF attempts 1 through 3 were mistakenly attributed to Oscar Wilde. IVF attempts 4 through 6 are actually a 47-year-old unemployed dataprocessor living in squalor in a mobile home in eastern Washington state. IVF attempt 7 might have given your computer a virus, so I hope you run frequent backups. IVF attempt 8 wants you to know that it was provided as a review copy in exchange for promotional consideration on this blog.
Anyone else have any corrections to make? Now's the time to set the record straight.
Hey! Look! I'm a finalist for a blog award. If you feel moved, vote. If you feel moved to vote for me, vote a lot! I wouldn't normally ask, but the ultimate prize is real money, which might just pay for the Nuge.