the post-ironic future crisis of tom & katie awaits the armchair quarterbacking of the literary geniuses at US Weekly

this is going to be awesome. once katie holmes gives birth to l.ron, jr., , all of america will be consumed by reports that the young starlet suffers from a severe case of post-partum depression. tom will return home from shooting M:I-3 to find katie doing the Michael Jackson Balcony Tango with their newborn (who will have been determined to be -- thanks to a wierd kaballah/voodoo seance administered by madonna during katie's third trimester -- the scientological equivalent of the messiah).

katie, with her crying, bloodshot eyes and her brown locks covering her mucus-stained face, will scream out, "tommy, i can't take it anymore! i can't stand this baby! i want to kill myself!"

tom might stop in his tracks, furrow his brow and tilt his head towards her curiously before flashing his dazzling pearly whites...

tom will give her vitamin c with rose hips and a couple lysine tabs, do a quick audit on her mental state, and say something along the lines of, "katie, look. look at me. look at me. you are fine. fine. you're just having a bad day. take this folic acid, have a little nap, and we'll go down to the celebrity center and have dinner with the travoltas." big, dazzling smile.

katie won't be having any of it. she'll smack the vitamins out of tom's giving hand, and pull out a loaded gatt, aiming it modified john woo-style at tom. through her sobs, she'll say, "you know, tom, while you were out shooting your damn movie, i was talking with brooke, and reading up on her memoir, and she tells me i need a heavy dose of wellbutrin if i'm ever to get through this depression--"

tom will cut her off. "excuse me? wellwhat? depressed what?! listen to me. listen. to. me. you put that gun down right now and you give me that baby and you take these god damned vitamins, you little toledo bitch. because you know who makes the rules here? tom makes the rules. that's right. and i didn't shell out ten million large so you can make uninformed decisions about how to deal with some fantasy ailment and pump your body full of pharmaceutical poison. now, i'm going to count to three, kate. i'm going to count. to. three."

he'll pause, but only for another dazzling smile and to remove his aviator shades (to give the moment the perfect note of gravity it deserves).

"one... two... kate? there are no more numbers between two and three, you know this... seriously, kate. do i look like i'm playing games? Ka.. com--... two and a half..."

she'll drop the gun, wipe away her salty tears and collapse into tom's arms, but not before pounding on his substantial pecs, crying in heaves and screaming, "why?! why?!!"...

it'll send the US Weekly newsroom into a hotbed of activity and blah blah blah.