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.
