This is one that I’ve been putting off for a while because, seriously, saying that Angelina Jolie is a one-woman bone zone is like saying that putting stuff inside of your vagina or butthole feels really nice. It’s like saying that people go to the bathroom, or that little kids smell like maple syrup for no good reason (especially if they’re poor). But even though it’s 100 percent obvious and true, let’s all collectively sit Indian style on the floor and meditate on the many ways in which Angelina Jolie is hotter than 99 percent of the world. (I’m shaving off that one percent because I’m completely dating someone now who I literally think is hotter than Angelina Jolie, and I’m not just saying that in hopes that she’ll come over and make me get naked and carve up my back with her whatevers once she reads this, although I do hope).
Over these past few holiday days and nights, I had a lot of time on my hands to just sit and daydream while making that face in my parents’ direction that leads them to believe that I’m paying attention to the story about how one squirrel is fatter than all the other squirrels in the tree in front of their house, and how he sits in a bowl and eats nuts all day. For whatever reason, this particular cluster of daydreams revolved around my all- consuming need to go to the hardware store and buy zip ties to put in my sex box. (If you don’t know what a sex box is, or if you don’t have one, please message me somehow and I’ll sort you out). All of this idle-minded perviness led me down a dark and twisty road to memories of Angelina Jolie, and now here we are.
Remember when Angelina Jolie was really attractive? I mean, she’s attractive now in that “I have long hair and an un-placeable faux foreign accent” sort of way, but in her Hackers and Foxfire days, she was painfully, PAINFULLY, smolderingly hot. In her heyday of attractiveness she did an interview with Oprah or some such shit about how she was bisexual and also collected knives and liked to use them, and have them used on her, during sex. What I’d like to know is, what the hell happened to all that? All I see of Angelina now is her winning awards for just being alive, traveling around collecting babies, and slowly turning Brad Pitt into yet another blonde man who looks like a blonde lesbian. I wish that for once, just ONCE, a famous sexual deviant would just stay that way. If I had a million trillion dollars I’d probably use it to turn my entire apartment into a dildo dungeon filled with bookish, mouthy brunettes and you’d never see me again. But I’ve always had great taste, and I guess some people don’t.
For a while, a few years back, I was having nightly dreams about Angelina Jolie. They would always be really vivid and elaborate sexual scenarios, some involving her and Brad hiring me on as their live-in house keeper and punishing me for breaking vases and stealing jewelry by fucking me to death. The best one I remember took place on the night of the Oscars. I will tell you all about it now.
So here’s Angelina walking the red carpet at the Oscars and I’m a surly young journalist in the crowd, not really caring to be bothered by taking her picture. She’s walking slowly down the aisle, pausing for long periods of time so that everyone can get their shots of her, and when she gets in front of where I’m standing, she becomes visibly annoyed by the fact that I don’t care about her. She stands there for a really long time, fuming, hoping that I’ll look up so that she can give me bitch face, but I never do. After like five minutes of staring at me, she crawls under the velvet rope into the crowd and slaps me really hard across the face. Um, that’s always about as far as I get…
Previously - Karen O