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The Babysitter!!!!

Joshua Copeland

    In 1993 the model Jayne Ellis dated Axl Rose. From January to April she had to leave her six month old infant with Rose while she went on a four month long modeling tour around the world. She said she wanted him to learn what it’s like to raise a baby. When she returned home Rose broke up with her and she found a diary he kept and lost during the time she was away. He yelled at her to shred it. But she did not. She made it public: Here it is:
    Marita packed up Jayne’s things. I said, “Jayne you are not leaving me at home with Brownie.”
    “The maids will help,” she said in reference to you, “but you need to learn the necessary skills.”
    “Look bitch,” I thought, “I am not a babysitter.
    “And I hate the name Jayne gave you: Brownie. Artistes have given their children awful names, but you are cursed with the worst of them. Jesus Christ, they’ll tear you apart in school. And yes, your name is even worse than Francis Bean Cobain and Moon Unit Zappa.
    “I can’t take care of this thing,” I told Jayne, referring to you.
    “Be nice,” she said. “Sure you can. And when I return home we’ll have the best sex we’ve ever had.” She grabbed my nuts, pulled me closer to her, kissed me, and walked out the door. And then it was just me and you. I looked downwards. Well, so far, so good. You just sat there like furniture.
    I decided to treat you like my own flesh and blood. “You are my son,” I said, and picked you up and lifted you above my head in celebration and all of a sudden I hear, superquick, clack!clack!clack!clack!clack!clack!clack!clack! you began to cry. I didn’t mean to lift your head into the ceiling fan.
    Things went south very fast. You cried every time I walked into the room. “What’s your problem, motherfucker?” I asked you. “This isn’t an MP. It is a YP. What I mean by that, bud, is that this is not my problem, it is your problem.”
    Your screaming makes my life hell. No matter where you are in the house, I hear you screeching away. At times, when you’re in your crib, I’ll rush up to your face and shout, “Mothetfucker, what do you want from me?!?! Admit it! You don’t like me! I won’t be embarrassed! Say Gaga twice! I’ll take that to mean, ‘You don’t like me.’” SAY IT! I WON’T TAKE IT PERSONALLY! JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!”
    The other day I picked up a little barbell shaped toy, like a rattle. “Here,” I said. “Do like normal babies do, play with it.” I tossed it at you. You threw it back at me and farted. That made me mad. “Okay, if that’s the way you want it...” I wound up like a pitcher and beamed it at you. Such a little snot. And if you who are reading this are like, “Golly Cheepers! How could you treat an infant like that?!” I reply that it was a light toy and did no harm.
    Back to you and your spoiled self. I’m not good enough for ya, huh? Go cry. Who cares. Oh yeah, and guess what? Your mom’s a bad lay. You see that girl who came in here and left an hour later. Now SHE was a good lay. And you can’t tell your mom I’m cheating on her, HAHAHAHA! Your mom will never know; serves her right.
    As for you, you piece of shit, I’m writing a song about you: “The Barb B Q.” it’s about how you hate me. You think I’m dirt. What’s a matter, ya little turd? I’m not as good as your coke-headed mommy? A nurse told me to be nicer to you. I fired her, and I let her know why I was firing her.
    I plopped you on the sofa to watch “Head Banger’s Ball” with me. You don’t even appreciate good music. Faster Pussycat, Odin, Brittany Fox, Vixen, and all you do is sit there and drool. How annoying, you keep tipping over, and I have to reset you upright.
    If you would stop drooling, I’d give you ten, no, a hundred, no, ten thousand dollars, ten fucking thousand dollars if you quit. Your baby food is always caked over your bib. You’re like a frigging geriatric the way you spit your food, IN MY GODDAMN FACE! Hey dipshit, I don’t have to be doing this. I can turn you over to 24 hour nurses. But if your mom found out I did that, I’d lose her. I didn’t know what I was in for when I agreed to babysit you.
    Your crying invades me dreams. It’s unfucking believable to lay there, listening to you shout and babble. So I’ll get out of bed, red eyes like coal, and hold you while we watch Network One. And you still don’t shut up. YOU DUMB PRICK! THIS IS WHAT I GET FOR WAKING ME UP AT THREE AM? YOU UNGRATEFUL SHIT!
    I grew up in a hard life, many nights we’d have no dinner and be forced to eat after dinner mints from the restaurant down the street. We had to cross the freeway to use the gas station restroom. And to sleep in a van, the heat knocks the hell out of you. By the time you’re up, your clothes are soaked. We were Poor with a capital P. AND HERE YOU FUCKING ARE! EVERYTHING A BRAT COULD ASK FOR! YET YOU’RE BLIND TO IT! YOU DON’T KNOW HOW LUCKY YOU ARE! AND YOU KNOW WHAT?! YOU’RE GONNA GROW UP WEAK, WEAK AND SOFT! LIKE THAT BABY ON THE COVERS OF YOUR DIAPERS BOX!
    You cry every time I light up a cigarette around you. So in response I smoke more, and blow it in your face. “What’s upsetting you?” I ask. “You want more smoke? You want me to blow MORE SMOKE? Like this? Sure, I’d love to.” Watcha cryin all about? Why all the coughing?”
    You bother me. The fact I make you cry keeps me up at night. I lay in bed, wondering why you hate me, steaming under the covers. Motherfucker, I am nothing but nice to you. And you’re Ritchie Rich. You have all and more than any kid could ask for. Yet I walk in the room and you sob. WHY DON’T YOU LIKE ME!?!? I AM A NORMAL, EVERYDAY GUY! I AM NOT SOMEONE TO BE AFRAID OF! I’M NOT A PERVERT OR A FREAK!! I OUGHTTA KICK YOUR ASS!
    Then I got an idea on how to shut you up. Steve Adler always had H and his gear on him. He came over, and it was funny, because we had to do the math on how much to give you. So we computed: Steve weighed himself on the bathroom scale. 142 lbs. Then we weighed you. Eight or so pounds. Steve does about 500 mg a day, and we were sloppy with the math, but we decided ten milligrams would do you good.
    We couldn’t find a belt tight enough for your arm, so we used yarn from Jayne’s sewing junk. We pinched the vein to the surface, and then shot you up with a 32 Gauge needle. You cried at first, and then...peace and quiet. Never have I appreciated silence more than when we shut you up with heroin. Sometimes you’d zone out, laughing at nothing. Then you fell asleep and we couldn’t wake you up. Lucky I knew how to do a sternum rub, and we got you up and working again.
    We rehearsed in the living room, and you were crying tears the size of Niagara, and Steven was out of H. Then Slash got a good idea. Let’s record your crying and track it into a song. So Slash, Izzy, and Duff took up their guitars and got right in your face and played away. The guy who stuck a fifty watt microphone in your face was Billy, our producer. You looked like you were on a roller coaster and wanted to get off. So how does it feel to be harassed by loud noise, huh? Not too much fun. It was cool when you puked. Got a taste of your own medicine. Don’t bullshit me. You tortured me on purpose. WHAT DID I EVER DO TO YOU? Life’s tough, kid. Better you learn it now, than later.
    Your mom wanted me to spend time with you and feel like a dad. You have taught me to despise fatherhood.
    Jayne will be home in a few days. I am packed to leave. She’ll end the relationship when I say I’m sick of you. I mean, she would never give you up for adoption, and I do not like you, and you have made it more than clear that you do not like me. Your mom wasn’t crazy about me anyways. So I’ll move out and go back to doing groupies, and she’ll go back to doing her female and male models. How she will deal with you, I have no idea. I admit, I rode you hard, but you can’t tell your mom! HAHAHAHA!!!!

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