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An Exclusive Interview with Sean Preston Spears

We sat down and spoke with Sean the other day amid reports that the Department of Family Services payed a visit after he reportedly fell out of his crib.

CRACKED: Sean, you've been in the news a lot lately. Does all this negative attention bother you?

Sean: Well, last week's reports surrounding the highchair incident were a little upsetting. Family Services have been at my house so much, I'd been under the impression one of the DFS agents was my dad. Then I read Gawker and find out that my biological father is actually the guy running around the house grabbing his crotch and screaming "Jee-ah!"


CRACKED: But do you feel like the media circus is robbing you of a normal childhood?

Sean: I think a normal childhood went out the window when I emerged from the vagina of a woman who spends the vast majority of her waking hours eating deep fried ho-hos and shrieking "fucking IDIOTS" at the lawn furniture.


CRACKED: Pretty strong language for such a young guy.

Sean: Really? Which one's the bad word? Idiots? Lawn furniture? I honestly have no frame of reference. For the first six weeks of my life I thought my name was "nigga."


CRACKED: Point taken. So no anger towards the gossip blogs?

Sean: I guess I would ask the bloggers for one small favor: please stop linking my dad's songs on your blogs. I get it, they're ridiculous. But here's the sad thing: He doesn't know that. I don't think I can take another day of him bragging about the "57 dollaz in mahfuckin' Google ads" he made or screaming "the more ya'll hate, the more papers I make" at passing cars and the mailman. It's like babysitting a trained gorilla.


CRACKED: How is their relationship? Do you think they'll last?

Sean: Well, whenever we're alone, my dad tells me he's going to "break the fuck up out this bitch" as soon as he gets a thousand dollars saved up. I'm pretty sure he thinks that's a lot of money. So yeah, I sort of feel sorry for the guy. Just not sorry enough to ever forgive my mom for fucking him.


CRACKED: Hmm. Doesn't sound good.

Sean: But then he always finds a way to make good. Like the other day, he got my aunt Jaime pregnant while she was taking a nap, so he wrote my mom a song. I actually know all the words because he made me do the physical writing, as I'm the only person in the household who knows how to spell. It went:

Baby, when I think of you
I get a lump in my throat, it's true
I only hope that you
Get a throat lump too
So that I can dissolve that shit
With the tip of my skin lozenge

He calls it "The Halls of Love." It's actually the cleverest thing he's done since I've been alive.


CRACKED: Anything else you'd like to mention?

Sean: I guess just keep your cameras on. The next time my mom tries to trade me for a drag off your cigarette, don't be shy about reporting it to the authorities, maybe getting some damning video.

Hell, don't be shy about actually making the trade. I'm potty trained, and in the unlikely event that the man of your house still poops his pants, I have a proven track record of reducing that sort of behavior by half. Plus, I can sleep through anything. Throw a kegger. The nightmares will drown it out. I have this particularly bad one where my mom comes home from the club, thinks I'm a Hot Pocket and drops me in the deep fryer.


CRACKED: Great! Well thanks for talking with us.

Sean: You're not even going to address the elephant in the room? You--why are you hiding?


CRACKED: We thought you said your mom was somewhere in the room.

Sean: No, it's a saying. "The elephant in the room" -the fact that I'm less than one year old and I can talk.


CRACKED: WAIT a second. Did you say your mom deep-fries Hot Pockets?

Sean: Yes.


CRACKED: I bet that's good.

Sean: I wouldn't know. My teeth haven't come in yet.

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