This, people, is the very definition of a Sexy Hot Bitch. The only way she could get any hotter would be to open that bag and show me that it contains a slab of bacon that she's bringing home to cook for me.
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Bowing to the pressure exerted by my giant brain, Vanessa had this to say:
All the exposure to young children does put me off having them. I love kids, don’t get me wrong, because without them I wouldn’t be where I am today, but they do follow me around to the most peculiar places. And they’re very loud!
Let me make something very clear: America cannot stand idly by and watch all of its female hotness be endangered by the sperm-laden douchebags that our Peak Chicks (like Peak Oil, only more vagina-y) inevitably gravitate toward. Since the Jessica Alba Debacle (wherein she allowed herself to be soiled by the seed of the oh-so-ironically named Cash Warren), I’ve been involved in a daily meditation routine designed to stop this sort of nonsense.
(And don’t any of you hippyfied post-natal drips start crying to me about how women can be just as hot after they’re given birth! Sure, the blessings of the Titty Fairy are appreciated, but we’re talking about young females on the edge of perfection here. Taking a fetal dump moves bones around. Stuff tears. Important stuff. Stuff I like. So shut up.)
What kind of meditation can prevent these travesties, you ask? The kind where I sit in the middle of my living room floor, concentrate on (for example) Vanessa Hudgens’ ovaries, and pound myself in the nuts with a meat tenderizer. The resulting scream does more than send neighborhood dogs fleeing in all directions… it generates an overwhelming psychic wave aimed at California, one that washes over the target and lands a 64-hit combo on the part of her brain that is predisposed toward saying things like “Oh my God those tiny baby shoes are so cuuuuuuuute!”
I refer to photos like this as "motivation".
And I do this in service to my country. Where’s my parade, you bastards?!