So my good friend Neil Patrick Harris has gone sort of New Age since he gave birth to the twins, and I’m hanging at his place and we’re in the kitchen drinking his surprisingly cheap red wine and he’s telling me all about this book he downloaded off the internet about “communing with his archangels” and I tell him he’s full of shit.
“Do you even know what an archangel IS?” I ask. “Archangels are a million eyes and a million wings and a million teeth and loud ear-shattering voices and fire and thunder and lightning and terrible to behold and if you see one in its true form you go f**king insane forever because the human mind can’t even comprehend the power and vastness of an archangel.”
And of course, while I’m blathering on, David (his husband-to-be, the other dad, dark hair, cute smile, huge dick, you’d know him if you saw him) comes gliding into the kitchen with a twin on each arm, like a cat you never see until you step on it, and of course the twins immediately start screeching like said cat after you’ve stepped on it, because apparently Daddy Neil has been telling them wonderful stories about how Daddy David is really an archangel come to earth specifically to love them and love Daddy Neil, and suddenly I am one uninvited guest because now the twins are terrified of Daddy David.
My friends, you DO NOT EVER want Neil Patrick Harris to suddenly hate you, even for an instant. His stare was so icy my left testicle immediately froze off and fell to the floor, where Neil Patrick stomped it to dust. I strongly suspect I will not be invited over for the after-Oscar Awards party/orgy this year.