Kim, why do I get the feeling if I pressed your ass onto a newspaper comic strip I could pull it off and read a Ziggy cartoon plain as day? Why is it always orange and shiny? Did you back into an oiled pancake skillet? I would imagine it’s tough to keep track of a three foot bean bag chair permanently attached to the small of your back, but can’t Kanye keep it away from the stove? He’s up there anyway.
I guess you have a right to be proud of the end result of spin class and airbrushing, but how will you explain your ass-posure to your daughter? That even though you appear to have business savvy and a dad on a Wheaties box you wanted fame without reason, and decided the shortest distance between two points was the crack of your butt? That even though you have enough money to carpet the entire planet you instead hired a team of lighting specialists to determine the best shadows to highlight your taint?
You could be grooming her to lead all of your many charitable organizations, or at least Angelina Jolie’s many charitable organizations. You could be raising her to use her brain almost as often as her vagina. You could be teaching her that a pap smear selfie is in bad taste. But you’re not. You’re spreading your butt cheeks over her head like earmuffs, so the first memories she’ll have of you will be looking up to see if your tampon string is showing. And it will be.