One Whipped Mother

An Open Letter to Jennifer Aniston

Dear Jennifer,

You are an idiot. No, I really mean that. You are, without a doubt, a huge, skankerous idiot.

Now, before you get your ever-present perky nipples all in a tangle, I'll explain why I believe you are an idiot, then, if you're so inclined, you may have your say. However, please don’t expect me to reply, because I generally don't reply to idiots -- I only bash them, dig? But, if after many cocktails I deem you worthy of my time, I might just go ahead and enter into cyber intercourse with you (no darling, not that kind of intercourse -- there are a few different definitions, all of which can be found in a dictionary). But no promises, 'kay?

Better grab on to your gigantic head and hold tight, baby; it's going to be a bumpy, insulting ride. I'd hate to be the cause of any further injury to your mushy little brain.

First of all, two words: Brad Pitt. Brad fucking Pitt! Are you insane? Have you completely lost your food-deprived mind? Brad Pitt, possibly the most beautiful creature ever created, wants to have children with you, and you'd rather make movies? What? I'll say that again: What?

The man gave you four years, Jenny. You had four years alone with the god of all men, had all that time to party, live it up, enjoy your beauty and youth, smoke all the righteous cannabis you wanted, and, to put it delicately, attempt to become a major movie star. I'd say that that's a damn good chunk of time. But that wasn't enough for you, was it?

I have one question that's been burning my soul, Jen: Why did you get married? Was this some kind of statement? Were you saying, "I snagged the god of all men, and I am now queen -- queen of the wooooorld!" Was Brad merely a trophy, something to be admired on occasion? Was Brad your validation, tangible proof that you are not, as you've claimed many times your mother has said, "homely"?

Is Brad your middle finger, J?

Which brings me to this: The whole deal with your mother proves, to me at least, that you are a cold-hearted brat who can't seem to accept responsibility for your own weaknesses. If the worst thing your mother ever did was be honest with you (she tried to tell you how hard Hollywood can be on homely folk, which, at that time, you most definitely were), then you should consider yourself lucky. Oh, wait, forgive me -- she also suggested that you wear make-up and lose weight. And yes, she wrote a book capitalizing on your name. Why that horrendous old hag!

Untold millions of people have had to deal with drug-addicted, physically abusive horrors for mothers, mothers who thought nothing of telling their children how much they hate them while beating them with turkey basters. And so on.

Yet you have shunned the woman who gave birth to you, simply because you are an idiot.

And your movie star aspirations? Hasn't worked out like you expected, eh? Aw. Too bad the American public can see that you have only minimal comedic ability, and that anything beyond is wishful thinking. Your hair ain't gonna get you the brass ring, girl. The one movie that you starred in that had merit, The Good Girl, was carried by the fabulous Jake Gyllenhaal, not you, dear. Sure, you flattened your glorious mane for the part, adopted a passable folksy accent, but your character was just Rachael dealing with a bitch of a hangover, wasn't she? As subsequent roles have shown, you are limited, sweet bones. Very limited.

Just because you hypnotized many fans of Friends into thinking that you were the “It Girl” and not, as she so deserved, Courtney Cox, don’t bet on the spell lasting much longer.

You're delusional, and you're screwed beyond measure. Not only have you pushed away those who truly care for you, at age 36, your imagined Oscar will never, ever come to be. So, no Brad, no babies, no career, and you're middle aged. It’s midnight, and your coach has just turned back into a pumpkin.

Your fairy godmother has left the building.

Let's tie all of this up in one big word, shall we? Idiot

May you find peace at some point in your life -- I sincerely mean that.

Respectfully,

Ms. Lori

P.S. The only reason I wrote this letter is because I’m envious of you -- I‘m a fat slave who is not appreciated by those whom I slave over, a bitter sow who wears clothing designed by the renowned house of Target, and I make myself feel better by dumping on others who appear to have a life of leisure and privilege and endless possibility. Still, I really do think you’re an idiot.

posted by Ms. Lori @ 9:00 AM