Lisa Marie Presley, Alexandra (and the other one) Richards, Charlotte Gainsbourg, and if Iâ€™ve had enough Red Bull and vodkas, maybe even Rufus Wainwright â€“ thereâ€™s something hot and mildly Freudian about wanting to bang the offspring of rock â€˜nâ€™ roll royalty. In a way, through some sort of ovarian osmosis, itâ€™s like metaphysically doing a younger, less talented version of The King, Keith or Jane Birkin.
I could go on and on â€˜til the break of dawn like Donkey Kong with my infuckuations for progeny poon like Nona Gaye and Bijou Phillips, even when I donâ€™t particularly care for the old manâ€™s music (e.g. Trixie Garcia, Zoe Kravitz, Alexa â€œDowneasterâ€ Joel). And of course there are a few dogs out there whose asses Iâ€™d never sniff no matter how many RB&Vs Iâ€™d had (e.g. Belly Osbourne, Anna makes-me-wanna-be-Gay-briel). Who knows, maybe one fine day Iâ€™ll write a pop-up/wack-off book about â€˜em. And yet thereâ€™s one Daddyâ€™s little girl whoâ€™s been evading my fuckdar for years now â€“ Frances Bean Cobain.
To my knowledge – prurient as it may be – the little orphan (in everything but name really) has only given three interviews since Pappy pulled the trigger and Mommy Slutest made us suffer, err I mean, Live Through This. As of recent though, the blogosphereâ€™s been wetter than a R. Kelly groupie regarding the fifteen-year-oldâ€™s possible naming as the new face of Coco Chanel.
Wow, Papa must be so proud. If ever there were a time for him to preach, it would be now. After all, she does have his eyes. And if someone doesnâ€™t stop all this malarkey, she might end up with one of Courtneyâ€™s shape–shifting noses. In infinitely better news for the unfortunately named tartelette, sheâ€™s firmly denied ever giving Belly Osbourneâ€™s cunt fart of a brother a â€œFloyd The Barber.â€ And while Iâ€™m sure Kurtâ€™s still pissed about the widow selling all his shit for coke, Iâ€™d like to think that heâ€™s equally as pleased about that.