By Allison Parks
If you have no life like me, then chances are you spend every second of
every day wondering: When will Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie get married?
Well, now you don't have to! I have imagined the potential story of their
wedding day, and it's all right here for your enjoyment! Read on!
One by one, black SUVs pull up to the African wedding compound. All the big
stars are there: George Clooney, Matt Damon, The Afflecks, TomKat and Baby
Suri, Michael Douglas and Catherine Zeta Jones, and Julia Roberts with her
cameraman manslave and their gingerbread haired demon-child in toe. Brad
warmly greets his guests with a smile; Angelina is nowhere to be found. The
party-goers sip on wheat grass shots and Dom Pérignon while chatting amongst
themselves. A mohawked Maddox kicks Julia Roberts' ginger kid in the shins.
The guests watch, intrigued, doing nothing to stop it, because after all he
*is* a ginger and deserves the abuse.
Several yards away in the honeymoon tent-complete with malaria prevention
net-Jennifer Aniston is pouring Tabasco sauce on Angelina's sexy honeymoon
panties. That should ruin the evening for both of them, she thinks to
herself, cackling wildly like a hyena. She's wearing a Richard Nixon
Halloween mask to evade reporters, but the unforgiving African sun is
causing her to sweat all of the Botox out of her face. She snips a few holes in
the malaria net. Then it's off to the airport and safely home to LA with her
loving dogs who would never leave her for a big-breasted, do-gooding witch.
Back at the wedding compound, the ceremony is set to begin. Brad's side of
the aisle is packed with A-listers, friends, and family. Angelina's side
includes her Asian lesbian ex-lover, Jenny Shimizu, a warlock (to bless the
marriage), her flight instructor, and a sea of empty chairs.
The ebony wedding musician begins to play "I want to fuck you like an
animal" on the flute. The best man and brother of the groom, Doug, steps
down the aisle holding Zahara's hand. Zahara is, of course, the maid of
honor and the only member of Angelina's wedding party. Brad didn't want to
draw attention to Angelina's glaring lack of friends by having a line of
groomsman walking solo down the aisle. Next, Angelina steps out on the arm
of her pervert/vampire-looking brother, James. Her father, John Voigt was
not invited of course, due to their strange estrangement, partially caused
by his weeping and declaring her criminally insane on *E! News Weekend*.
Angelina looks radiant as she walks down the aisle in an ivory Badgley
Mischka gown and marches towards Brad, who, romantically has pitched a tent
in his pants. Even six months pregnant, she still bonerizes him like there's
As she reaches the altar and prepares to separate from her brother, a hush
falls over the crowd. Will they suck face? Will he grab her lactating
hooters? He goes in... but it's only for a kiss on the cheek. He plants his
enormous vampire lips on her face and then sits down next to the warlock and
proceeds to rub his thigh throughout the ceremony.
From the back of the room, Baby Shiloh begins to wail. "Shut up, cracker
ass!" Angelina shouts. Shiloh stops wailing, knowing Mommy will get out the
wire hanger if she keeps crying. Zahara uncomfortably looks down at her
shiny Mary Janes, and Maddox fingers the switchblade in his pocket while
gazing at Julia Roberts' son's gingerbread scalp. Pax, meanwhile, has jacked
Michael Douglas' Land Rover and left for Vietnam in search of his real
The reading of the vows goes off without a hitch. Brad and Angelina engage
in a long, gratuitous makeout sesh followed by the ritual trading of blood
viles. Now it's time to party!
The guests dance and eat like there's no tomorrow. Well, the men eat like
there's no tomorrow; the women nibble on a peppered sliver of lettuce,
staring mournfully at the wedding cake while their eyes well up with tears.
Angelina gets tired of dealing with a fussy Baby Shiloh and instructs the
nanny to put her in the Louis Vuitton suitcase. Baby Suri sees the terrible
imprisonment and frees Shiloh from the pricey luggage. Then the two sassy
young girls decide it's time to blow the joint. They leap into George
Clooney's convertible Mercedes and tear off their oppressive Ralph Lauren
jumpers, not unlike Liv Tyler and Alicia Silverstone in the Aerosmith video.
Suri ignites a copy of *Dietetics* and flings it out of the car as they
speed off in search of adventure.
Finally, the night wears to an end. Violet Affleck is getting grouchy over
poopy diaper, and Michael Douglas is getting bitchy over his. The celebs
tuck themselves into their respective tents and go to sleep. Meanwhile,
Brangelina has wild honeymoon animal sex. Sure they're down two children,
but that's not going to put a damper on Brangelina humping. They've got one
replacement in the oven and they'll adopt another before returning to
America. That is, if the mosquitoes don't get them first.###
Shamu is my neighbor. I don't know his real name, but I do know one thing:
come rain, snow, or a hellfire shower of meteors, Shamu will be outside of
his apartment, topless, sitting in his little wicker chair. I say the chair
is little because Shamu is anything but little; he's a juggernaut, a whale
of a man with a spine-chilling pony tail and matching mustache. He looks like Ron Jeremy ate himself then ate everyone he's ever slept with, then ate 600 candy apples because he was still hungry.
Since Shamu doesn't have a job, his physique is on display for the
neighborhood to take pleasure in all day, every day. This is because I unsuspectingly moved in next door to a Christian charity project,
which is basically housing for the homeless (thanks for the warning,
Hedgerow Property Management—I'll get you!).
"Shamu, why do I have to stare at your massive white gut every single day?"
How do these housed homeless give back to their community, which has so
graciously given them free apartments? Plant a nice vegetable
garden for the neighbors to enjoy? Keep their building nice and tidy?
Perhaps even better their *own* lives? Oh no, they scream at medics while
being forcibly strapped to gurneys in the night for mysterious reasons, they
rev their hoopties at high volumes, and they start ear-piercing fights that
sound like they were transcribed from a special needs debateclass.
Here is an actual fight between a couple that I heard at 4am. Enjoy:
*Woman:* You get the fuck out, asshole!!*
Man:* Fine, I will, fuck you, I'm never coming back!*
Woman:* Like a give a shit!!*
Man:* Uh, you, uhhh, go *take* a shit!
Needless to say, he got her with that zinger. But let's not talk about
Today, I want to write a letter to Shamu, the flagship hobgoblin from the
housing project. Even if you don't send a letter, Oprah says it's good to express your feelings in letter format. Perhaps when I move out I'll tie it to a brick and pelt Shamu in his rotund gut with it.
Why aren't you wearing a top? It's 35 degrees outside, aren't you cold? I
know I'm cold, and I'm wearing an anorak. Is your blubber so dense that
you can't even feel the cold anymore?
Shamu, don't you get bored? Sometimes your degenerate homeboys stop by to
chat, and once in a while your cat will grace you with a visit, but for the most part, you're alone. No TV, no frosty King Cobra to sip on, not even a *Barely Legal* to flip through. Why don't you get yourself something to do out there?
Shamu, how do you stay so fat? I know you don't have a job since you never
leave that chair. Where do you get the money to acquire the food to keep yourself in an insulating igloo of fat?
Shamu, why do you leer at me whenever I get out of my car? Are you lusting
after that chocolate croissant in my hand? Have you surpassed traditional food altogether and now desire to eat me? Isn't it enough that I have to stare at your massive white gut every single day?
Must I endure your creepy stares as well? Shamu, does it bother you when I
grimace back at you? Even when I glare right back into your beady little
eyes, you won't break the stare. Why Shamu, why?
Shamu, when you roll off your bed each morning, put on your trousers and
rainbow suspenders, or shorts if it's a little warm out, do you ever look in the mirror and think, "Am I punishing people by making them look at my pale, protruding, ever expending gut?" Would it be *so* terrible to put on a shirt?
I guess what I'm trying to say Shamu, is please, please go back in the
house, or I will kidnap your cat. Springtime is upon us and I'm afraid you'll start wearing even less. Springtime is also mating season, so I worry Shamu…I worry that you'll find a she-Shamu in a tattered sports bra to sit with you outside your apartment.
Then I'll have two of you to look at. I just can't do it,
Shamu. I just can't.
*Your vengeful neighbor,