You can't handle the truth

Dear diary,

Today we started the deprogramming for Kate (I had her name changed to Kate, by the power of Scientology vested in me). We had her in the chamber for awhile, so I went and polished my large, Chiclet-esque teeth while they erased all her memories of her past life, including Dawson's Creek. That show promotes psychology, which is the devil.

I told Kate we should name the spawn Elrondia if it's a girl, and Elrondre if it's a boy. She started to say something, but then I Tasered her and gave her the little yellow pills. She'll be fine when she comes to in a couple of hours.

I love how Kate towers over me like a giant. I think she's about seven feet tall, but she said she's 5'7". She said I was just short. I didn't believe her (if I believe I'm tall, I must be tall), but then she showed a tabloid paper where it said that I'm like a gay midget with a laugh like a donkey. Newspapers are so glib.

I should call Kirstie Alley and John Travolta to see if they want to go to the underground lair with me (even though the lair doesn't really exist, forget I said that diary).

Got to go, diary of genius. Time to go look at the Spawn of Greatness with that sonogram I bought. Doctors have no idea what they're doing. They're so glib.

Brooke Shields can suck it,
Tom Cruise

P.S. Stop being so glib, diary.