Wednesday, November 30, 2005

An Open Letter to Brad Pitt

Dude, strap on a set.


I know she’s hot and she’s into some freaky stuff, but have you looked at yourself lately? She’s got you dressed like some reject from “Dazed and Confused,” holding orphan kids in countries no one can spell. She’s receiving citizenship left and right while you sit in the background holding diaper bags and reeking of baby wipes. I almost feel sorry for you.

Imagine that, ME feeling sorry for YOU.

We’ve all done stupid stuff for hot chicks. I’ve got pictures of me from 1985 wearing bright red parachute pants to prove it. We’ve done even more stupid stuff because sometimes those hot chicks actually sleep with us. Trust me. I know.

But you’re Brad “mothafucka” Pitt. You’re The Man. People Magazine habitually names you one of the sexiest men walking on the planet. They’re thinking about naming their award after you. You’re supposed to be better than all this pussy-whipping she’s putting you through. The siren song of the freakshow ‘tang can be mighty near impossible to overcome. But you have to rise up. Strike back against the evil empire that resides between her legs.

What’s happened to you? You used to be boss. Globetrotting is cool. Globetrotting with a hot chick is cool. Letting her hold your manhood in her passport is not cool. You’re supposed to be the epitome of all that is cool.

So be cool.

Instead, you’re playing “Mr. Sensitive.” Why? The sensitive guy has to be sensitive so girls have a reason to talk to him. Maybe you’ve always been sensitive. I don’t know. All I do know is that you weren’t traveling to third world countries and holding babies until after Angelina started holding your babies. In her mouth.

So, what’s up with that? Is this the real Brad Pitt we’re seeing now? Or, is this the only way you think of to keep yourself balls deep in her? Is it that good? Is it that much better than Jennifer Aniston’s perpetually erect nipples? Come clean with me. I won’t tell.

I’m not saying I would turn it down. Then again, I’m fat, married, and carrying outrageous debt. Something like that could help me through some pretty brutal Chicago winters.

But not you.

Shit, girls sling their panties at you if you happen to be in the same area code. I’ll never be on the receiving end of aerodynamic panties. But I’ve still got my pride.

And you’ve got Angelina Jolie.

Damn it. Never mind. I'm an idiot.