Lisa Marie Presley, Alexandra (and the other one) Richards, Charlotte Gainsbourg, and if I’ve had enough Red Bull and vodkas, maybe even Rufus Wainwright – there’s something hot and mildly Freudian about wanting to bang the offspring of rock ‘n’ roll royalty. In a way, through some sort of ovarian osmosis, it’s like metaphysically doing a younger, less talented version of The King, Keith or Jane Birkin.

I could go on and on ‘til the break of dawn like Donkey Kong with my infuckuations for progeny poon like Nona Gaye and Bijou Phillips, even when I don’t particularly care for the old man’s music (e.g. Trixie Garcia, Zoe Kravitz, Alexa “Downeaster” Joel). And of course there are a few dogs out there whose asses I’d never sniff no matter how many RB&Vs I’d had (e.g. Belly Osbourne, Anna makes-me-wanna-be-Gay-briel). Who knows, maybe one fine day I’ll write a pop-up/wack-off book about ‘em. And yet there’s one Daddy’s little girl who’s been evading my fuckdar for years now – Frances Bean Cobain.

To my knowledge – prurient as it may be – the little orphan (in everything but name really) has only given three interviews since Pappy pulled the trigger and Mommy Slutest made us suffer, err I mean, Live Through This. As of recent though, the blogosphere’s been wetter than a R. Kelly groupie regarding the fifteen-year-old’s possible naming as the new face of Coco Chanel.

Wow, Papa must be so proud. If ever there were a time for him to preach, it would be now. After all, she does have his eyes. And if someone doesn’t stop all this malarkey, she might end up with one of Courtney’s shape–shifting noses. In infinitely better news for the unfortunately named tartelette, she’s firmly denied ever giving Belly Osbourne’s cunt fart of a brother a “Floyd The Barber.” And while I’m sure Kurt’s still pissed about the widow selling all his shit for coke, I’d like to think that he’s equally as pleased about that.