Much is being made of the voice mail I recently left for my ingrate daughter, and I would like to take this opportunity to set the record straight.

First off, I’m Alec Baldwin. Say it again slowly, dolt. That’s right. Alec. Freakin’. Baldwin. You may think you can fathom what it’s like being me, but unless you are an extra-terrestrial being with infinite cerebral capacity, you can’t. You can try to coax your feeble mind into grasping the magnitude of my existence, but then you’d have to multiply that number by 100. Then go watch The Hunt For Red October, and you’ll realize that you should multiply it by 100 again. Maybe even a third time.

It really doesn’t matter, because whatever result you come up with is microscopic when compared with the true burden of Baldwinity. In fact, right now scientists are struggling to come up with some metric to quantify the weight of my existential responsibility. They have so far failed, and several of their heads have exploded in the process.

But back to the matter at hand. About 11 or 12 years ago (really now– am I supposed to know precisely how old the little $#$*&@! is?), my sperm tragically merged with the ovum of one Kim Basinger. What’s most peculiar about the incident is that historically speaking, my sperm do not merge; they overpower, strangle, and eat ovum. This process is not unlike a school of piranha devouring an injured hippo calf. Once fed, they then proceed to clog the host-wench’s ovaries with such a massive amount of pure, uncut Baldwin DNA that, typically, massive organ failure results.

Yet, a creature was born and we named her “Ireland.” Not after the country, mind you, but rather because I was so filled with ire at the temporary weakness exhibited by my heretofore omnipotent man-seed. You can be sure my testes were given a good talking to after this lapse, and there have been no repeat performances to date.

So, I’ve allowed this overgrown zygote called Ireland to draw breath (thus depriving true Baldwin’s of precious oxygen) by my estimates for some 9-14 years now. Some nights, while I hover over my bed pondering the limits of my human life form, I wonder if I should reclaim my missing DNA by eating my ill-begotten spawn, thus extending my own life and increasing the likelihood that a sequel to “The Marrying Man” can be made. I know that my friend and fellow political pundit Rosie O’Donnell has eaten several of her adopted children and claims that the experience was invigorating. And they weren’t even flavored with the special Baldwin all-spice.

So, with all of this as a back story, I think you can understand the reaction I had when this accident called Ireland failed to answer my phone call. Trust me, it will all be straightened out. From now on Ireland will not miss my calls because I am going to personally outfit her ears with the necessary wiring via some needle-nose pliers and just a pinch of the Baldwin magic.

Thank you.

Alec Baldwin

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