As any loving parent knows, there are but two reasons to procreate, to bring life into this world through the glorious natural act of doing it.

No. 1 is to have someone around to look after you when you grow old and No. 2 is to have an organ donor handy if and when the need arises.

And as any father or mother also knows, the one thing that should be instilled in that tot from the moment it begins selfishly gulping down our precious air supply is it's there by our grace and for our purposes and/or amusement.

It -- don't name or engender them, that just humanizes things unnecessarily -- is there to lay down its life for us.

Which makes the entire uproar over Britney Spears' recent paparazzi-caught moving violation difficult to comprehend.

From the moment her husband's slow-witted hillbilly seed stumbled its way into the fertile part of her water-works, there has been many wag wagging about how unfit for motherhood Spears might be.

Now, it's time to give credit where credit is due and congratulate her on revolutionizing the job of parenting.

Not only has the child fulfilled its duty of supplying tissue samples and body parts should, perish the thought, something horrible befall Ma Brit, but now we've seen its use in prevention.

Hounded by shutter-clicking madmen and frightened into fleeing prior to the procurement of a caramel macchiato, Britney had the foresight and wherewithal to remember the fate of another, less useful member of royalty, and pop her tot in her lap to act as an instant, soft and fleshy safety feature.

Should she, in her haste to escape the fame-prolonging media jackals, have encountered a telephone pole on her way home, that quick thinking could have been the difference between life and death, or, even more importantly, a comeback album and a quickly cobbled together posthumous rarities release.

Here's hoping the rumours are true and our heroine is once more with child -- when you've go precious cargo like K-Fed sitting next to you, a second, mewling passenger-side airbag should be standard issue.

FOR THE LOVE OF LARRY

Sometimes you just get caught up in your day-to-day life and forget about the things that matter until it's too late.

For example, Friday I realized I've been negligent in replying to the mail in response to the review of Larry the Cable Guy's Tuesday night show.

Now, again, the week of a "writer" may seem a leisured thing, what with the opinions being pre-formed and plagiarism a difficult thing to prove -- meaning the "job" gets done in minutes.

So "busy" doesn't seem something I very well might be.

But that doesn't take into account my other duties as a small "l" liberal, which include cashing welfare checks, procuring late-term abortions for 12-year-olds, running non-English-speaking illegal aliens through our borders to work in my meth labs, and cruising the playgrounds with candy to lure schoolchildren into the homosexual lifestyle (Lesson one: Mincing; Lesson two: Import beers; Lesson three: Ascots ...).

Let us, then, rectify that oversight here and now in one bulk reply.

The biggest complaint -- well the one that came through amidst all of the mangled syntax and crimes against Webster and Oxford -- seemed to be my inference the humour or the audience itself was homophobic or racist.

My word, no. That Christmas carol with the punchline about foreigners being bad drivers was hilarious on so many other levels than the obvious stereotype of all ethnic minorities having poor motor skills. It was sung, for example. And, um, it may have rhymed.

And that other joke about terrorists (i.e. Muslims) wearing diapers on their heads -- which was afforded applause and shouts of agreement that was aggressive bordering on Reichstag-ian -- that, too, was a comedic Rubik's Cube.

Yes, it seemed like the kind of reaction you'd expect from people who make "immigrant" jokes to their neighbours and then get down on their knees every night and pray to their white God they never actually wind up with an immigrant for a neighbour.

But that doesn't make them racist.

Just as my business card may read Mike Bell "inner city Liberal, Brokeback Mountain sheep loving queer critic (sic)," but that doesn't mean I am one.

Goats are more my thing.