You would too. Turns out the little tyke was watching “EXTRA” on TV and making fun of Federline when he noticed something odd - the clown kept showing up on TV following his mother everywhere. Then he looked around the kitchen and noticed the same guy was always there, smelling of marijuana and wearing cornrows and it dawned on him. Once the impact hit home, witnesses say, the little tyke tried to off himself rather than grow up having to wear baggy pants and make bad rap albums.

As a precaution, child protective services was called in to investigate but little K-Fed was unable to implicate his dad in the crime.

As if she needed any more assurance after making Chris Martin the boy’s father. Obviously as soon as it’s discovered that the dad in that family is the guy from Coldplay you can bet helpful bigger kids will rob the young lad of his dignity and his pants.

But that’s the future. How did she insure he will get beat up right now? She named him Moses! That’s right, an old school Biblical name, and just in time for Easter. What did Moses have to do with Easter, you ask? Not a damn thing. But I am betting Gwyneth Paltrow doesn’t know that.

Relatonship Advice

It may surprise you to learn this, because you are used to me being a science guru and, on occasion, a Formula One race car driver who solves mysteries on TV, but I am also an expert on relationships.

Not my own, of course. My past relationships have gone somewhere between train wreck and horror movie - without the actual sweet release of death. No, I mean I am an expert on your relationships.

I know women can be confusing at times. Not full-on confusion, like how Nicole Kidman can get married in the Catholic Church after being married to a Scientologist for 11 years. But instead that mild sort of confusion that makes me doubt I can get a whole post of relationship advice without getting bogged down ( blogged down?) in a mess of tables and diagrams.

So I gave up on the idea of keeping it simple. Thus, here it is, an easy to follow guide to understanding women. It’s like a taxonomy key. If you don’t know what that is, you deserve bad relationships:

Does she drink Shiner Bock? If the answer is YES, it means she is from Texas and can shuck a crawdad for you in under 3 seconds. Ask her on a date because Texas women can endure anything. If the answer is NO, go to IS SHE A REPUBLICAN?

Did you meet her in a Farmer’s Market? If the answer is yes, you are in LA. So she doesn’t find it odd if you spend more on waxes than her and have better shoes. If the answer is NO, what are you doing at a Farmer’s Market? And go to CAN SHE BAKE A PIE?

Does she have a great butt? If the answer is YES she is from Bulgaria, home of the hottest non-blonde women per capita on planet Earth. If the answer is NO, why are you talking to her? Have you ever been comforted when a friend setting you up with a girl issues forth the statement, “She has really pretty eyes”? No, I didn’t think so. And go to DOES SHE LISTEN TO DRIVE-BY TRUCKERS?

Does she know what a Superdawg is? If the answer is YES, you are in Chicago. There will always be cheap beer at her place. She also won’t mind if you pull out your thing in the cab ride back from dinner. If the answer is NO, fly to Chicago.

Is she a Republican? If the answer is YES, she won’t cry about the woman she is devastating by sleeping with you. If the answer is NO, get thee to a Red state and find one. And tell Ann Coulter I said hello. I kinda miss her.

Does she listen to Drive-By Truckers? If the answer is YES, she is so dirty you don’t have to ask how many piercings she has as an indicator of where she will let you put it. If the answer is NO, a lack of a great ass and no freaky business means you are destined to watch Cinemax on Fridays for the foreseeable future.

Can she bake a pie? If the answer is YES, she is from Colorado. Marry the girl, because pie crusts are a b&%ch. If the answer is NO, two cups of flour, some salt, a cup of butter, a little bit of water, mix it all up, roll it out and then put it in a pie tin because only Colorado women will put up with your crap and you’re destined to die alone.

I hope this has helped you in your quest for the perfect woman but on further reflection, generally speaking, you’re better off leaving the difficult relationship cases for actual scientists. We’re like Air Traffic Control for crazy women - we don’t care which airline they are, we just want to make sure we all land safely.

What’s up with chicks and their need to wear fake parts? I made the call on Jessica Simpson’s fake can when I saw Dukes of Hazzard. I didn’t make the call on Felicity Huffman’s fake penis while filming TransAmerica, mostly because I thought she already had a real one.

Now it turns out Penelope Cruz ( who? ) needed curvature help also. And she liked having a real woman’s bottom so much she asked to be able to keep the fake one after her RETURNING shoot was done. I tell you, when a girl I have never seen in a movie has a butt so inconsequential she needs to pad a pair of pants to feel good about herself, it is going to be an excellent day for humor. What could make her life worse? Dating Tom Cruise?

editor’s note: Oops, someone informed me she actually has already dated Tom Cruise. No wonder he liked her. She has a man’s ass

Where did this notion come from that men can’t go to a day spa? I am not talking about some weird metrosexual craziness, I am talking about ordinary men. Rugged men. Scientific men. Like me. I went and, I have to tell you, I am darn proud of it. The reason I went is because on my last trip to Japan I got three of these tiny white corpuscle looking things on my face. Not like a zit … well, like a zit, only deeper. Subcutaneous even. So I go to a nearby place and walk in. It might as well be outer space to me. The girl at the desk asks what I want and I start explaining about this trip I took to Japan and maybe it was the altitude or the change in climate and her eyes glaze over and she excuses herself to get someone who might be interested.

The someone who might be interested presents herself and says they can indeed do an ‘extraction’ along with a whole slew of quite necessary things for good facial health. I am already excited. ‘Extraction’ sounds pretty cool.

I tell Sweety about this and, being ever supportive, she says, “You’re such a girl.”

This only steels my resolve. If I’m going to get called gay by my chick for going to get my face cleaned, then so be it. I’ll go every week just out of spite. Anyway, I go back for my appointment a week later and the girl in charge of my facial health this day rubs a bunch of stuff on me and looks at me under some sort of blacklight and generally washes my face and then pokes with her fingers at these white things.

“Sorry, I don’t think I can get those out,” she says.

“Of course you can,” I reply. “You get a needle and you prick at it a little bit and it comes right out.”

“We’re not allowed to have needles here. California regulations. Only dermatologists can do that.”

Why didn’t they mention that when I made the appointment a week ago, I think. But I don’t say anything because I am already out $150. I look around this tiny room. I don’t see anyone else. “I don’t see anyone named California regulations in here,” I tell her. “You have a whole building full of women. Surely one of you has a needle.”

“I don’t think so. The Board of Health could shut us down if we did.”

Now it’s a grudge match, see? Maybe it’s the Libertarian in me but I am not much for ridiculous legislation that impedes me getting what I want when I want it, so after a few minutes of conversation I shall not disclose ( you women think you’re the only ones who can get things done with the opposite sex? HA! I have science on my side, baby ) she goes to find out if anyone has a needle.

Well, they don’t. But life goes on and I am there and I know I can just go home and do it myself, I was just trying to avoid putting a needle near my eye. Call me crazy.

The one thing I was unprepared for was that they give you a massage too. Well, there’s just no way I was taking off my shirt for some strange girl - random, cocaine-crazed supermodels, yes. Strange women in a day spa where I live. Big no. I mention this to Sweety later and she asks why it was a big deal.

“I just don’t want other women seeing me naked. You want me to take off my shirt for other women?”

“Well, no,” she replies, “But it’s a massage. It comes with it.”

“I don’t want some strange girl touching me.I can’t remember the last time another woman saw me without a shirt on, so I am creeped out by it.”

“So she couldn’t see you without a shirt. What about your pants?” she asked.

“Oh, I let her blow me. That’s different.”

So guess what? She offered to take those white things out of my face right then and there … with a butcher knife. Just the same, I didn’t take her up on it. I never know when she might not be kidding about stabbing me in the eye.