Little Orphan Angie

From Melbourne's The Age newspaper, March 31 2007.

Some links added by me - for non-Australian's who don't know what a Daddo is.

The red carpets of Hollywood are crawling with a new stolen generation. Daniel Burt wants in.

AN ORPHAN IS NOT JUST for Christmas. They also make a great Easter gift. Soon, every celebrity will have one and the Third World will disappear, one boutique baby at a time.
If compassion were bird flu, Angelina Jolie would be laying eggs and begging for crackers.
Her latest recruit is a Vietnamese boy named Pax. Officially, he's the luckiest kid on the planet, but just wait until Pax hits his teens. You thought things were emotionally twisted for Oedipus. Having "the talk" with your mum never felt so wrong.
As for me, at the risk of jeopardising my inheritance, if it meant getting adopted by Angelina, I would happily murder my parents.
Hollywood's other do-gooders must be shattered. It's no longer enough to fly to Chad, grab a photo op with a cripple and be home in time for the Botox appointment. Where once celebrities spoke out against child labour, now they are adopting the workers.
Being in such high demand, orphans are getting picky. Many refuse to live with anyone who is not an Oscar nominee. I heard of one Kenyan kid who threw a tantrum when he learned that his new parent had only been up for Best Sound. Another had the indignity of being acquired by the winner of a Golden Globe. Her lawyers are in negotiations.
Celebrities seem to jump straight in the deep end. Why not start with an electronic pet? Like most orphans, they are compact, make funny noises and are made in Asia. Ensure you can tell the difference. One A-lister bought an orphan and spent 25 minutes looking for the "off" switch.
But these children are more than breathing toys. They constitute a new stolen generation, pilfered not by governments but movie stars. To safeguard against accusations of bias, many personalities endeavour to adopt children from every continent. Angelina wants a "Rainbow Tribe", the racial equivalent of collecting the whole set.
Celebrity lounge rooms become mini-United Nations. Parents don't reduce pocket money; they impose economic sanctions. Preventing fights becomes peacekeeping. And as with the UN, when it comes to housework, nothing actually gets done.
These kids go from dirt floor to red carpet. With so much at stake, I wouldn't be surprised if they puffed up their sympathy CV. Believe me, prospective parents, do your homework. What I thought was a diseased Cambodian toddler turned out to be a 33-year-old Adelaide IT worker with gout. The slob drinks straight from the carton.
Everyone knows famous people should get what they want. But competition is fierce and most are too busy to read every sob story. That's why orphans worldwide should be given tickets in a celebrity lottery. If your number comes up, you get to go home with Paris Hilton. Different categories mean B-grade celebrities get B-grade orphans. Booby prize gets a Daddo.
Some people deride celebrities who adopt the disadvantaged. They question motives, sincerity and aptitude. These cynics themselves haven't been altruistic since 1983, and even then it was walking home a drunk girl in the hope she'd ask them inside.
We commoners claim to lack the wherewithal for such charity. But all we need is a more extreme incentive. I suggest changing every African kid's name to iPod. Not only would we spend big, we'd also splurge on accessories.
Prevalence, however, ruins allure. Glossy magazines thrive on quirky cases of infants being plucked from obscurity. The public laps it up and intrusiveness is happily masked as goodwill. In reality, the constant threat of paparazzi is LA's answer to the ebola virus. And our abiding interest fuels its spread.
I wish the best of luck to Hollywood's new offspring. If there's ever an orphan shortage, give me a call. I can make a fall down the stairs look like an accident.