Monday June 26th 2017

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Jennifer Aniston & the Mystery of the Reluctant Stiffy

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Q.  I’m just going to come out and say it: why do people care about Jennifer Aniston? This woman is rich and does not need our sympathy. A new perfume nobody wants, a movie out today that’ll be on DVD in November and when we rent it we’ll know why. I can’t think of a film she’s been in that I liked other than “Office Space” and that part could have been played by anybody.

A.  Seems like a lot of misplaced anger that could have been easily directed at David Schwimmer. I understand the perfume rage (this celebrity fragrance thing drives me nuts), I’ve also heard the new film is crap but “rich?” Is that really the issue? Money comes with the territory of being able to produce a new perfume nobody wants and publicize a movie that’ll be on DVD in November and when we rent it we’ll know why.

Jeez, what’s my problem? I was fully prepared to stand behind her and fight you on this but something must have snapped.

Full disclosure: I watched The Bounty Hunter tonight. It took two sittings to get through it because the suck was so strong, it needed to subdivided. This film contains way too much suck for one viewing. The DVD itself weighs twice as much as Office Space and about 6x as much as The Graduate, if that gives you any idea. Huge amounts of suck. Started watching it one night last week but after 20 minutes scrambled an emergency Plan B (anything but Plan A). The punishment resumed this evening.

Best part was that it ended and I was able to eject the disc. Final Destination 3 wouldn’t eject and I had to get a new DVD player — true story — so a bonus in that respect. Still, in fairness to our beloved Jen, I had a much rosier picture before this movie stained my brain. Now I’m angry and you happened to catch me at a good time.


I like her, always have. No reason not to. First time I saw her on Quantum Leap, I — like every man and boy with access to a television — had the horn.

When Friends debuted, same horn, a young lady is catapulted into the upper ranks of celebrity tail.

Oddly, at some point, all men have withdrawn. What gives? Some strange repellant lurks in the Smartwater.

That she’s unable to hold a man tells me — all that beauty, talent and, sure, money — behind the scenes there’s something so ginormous in error; a funk to the level where “she might have a penis” could be raised as an argument. You really have to ask yourself what’s causing so many suitors to turn away, and so comfortably, so okay with it. A penis would explain a lot.

Even Jennifer would see this as a compliment in the highest regard, the extent of exhaustive reasoning where nothing else makes any sense.

This should be a no-brainer to the extent that if she does, in fact, sport a massive Woodrow — one she refuses to properly cleanse or groom — a reasonable man will still invent creative ways to make do. She’s on the couch watching the game, scratching her nut sack, smelling her fingers — it’s time to accentuate the positive, eliminate the negative and never mess with Mister In-Between. It would be curious to know what degree of hygiene we’re talking about.

As a movie star,  she can’t open a weekend to save her life, but not a lot of people can. Her range is a question, never too far from the same role — smart cookie, maybe down on her luck in love, can’t seem to land happily ever after but eventually does — while in real-life, it’s the same except that last thing. It’s assumed when she’s married with kids, she’ll start playing married women who have kids.

Worse I figure, she’s probably not all that interesting when you get to know her [I’m not the only one who thinks this. My hairdresser says the same thing and I wouldn’t let her cut my hair if I thought she was just making stuff up]. The fascination exists where there’s something so decidedly fugly in Jendora’s Box and we’d all like to know what it is, she becomes more interesting than ever before. A victim of all that expectation and built-up curiosity, she pales in comparison and you’re almost disappointed when you learn she has a vagina.

I’d suspect Brad Pitt leaves the bar a tad high. This can’t be fair balance, coming down from rarified air only to watch Vince Vaughn gain 20 pounds over lunch. Look at Gerard Butler, phoning in these goofy romantic comedies he only makes goofier, he could not be further removed from King Leonidas or less convincing as a human being. He made “The Bounty Hunter” more excruciating than it needed to be and I’ll never forgive him for that.

Something dick-related rubbed off John Mayer post-Jen, his Playboy interview bogarted by a white supremacist cock worrying why it keeps brown sugar away. That, my friend, is douchebaggery off the charts. A broken engagement with Tate Donovan; Brad divorcing for Angelina Jolie. These men all share secrets in which we can only speculate. A purple-headed soldier? Bald-headed yogurt slinger? A man named Woody Schwartz?

I’m sure her new fragrance is a Lolavie scent (rimshot) but it seems odd to admit that an 18-month research process resulted in a not strong or overpowering “non-perfume perfume.” I’m reminded of my fried chicken experiment that didn’t really look or taste like chicken and in fact might have been a car battery. A few weeks and emergency room visits into the project, I pulled the plug — I didn’t need a year and a half.

New fragrance line: Volcanus: “The subtle essence of gently erupting bowels, in an underwhelming non-dookie way.”

I’ve gotten this far without saying she’s America’s sweetheart and other than the occasional misguided shout-out to the Special Olympics, the line still fits. She may not wear as many pieces of flair as management deems appropriate but she’s right to be understated, not so brash. It’s possible this fragrance she’s created is a perfect representation of how she exists and interacts — a true statement of her being, an honest assessment of her soul.

Then again, while looking for the bathroom, maybe last week’s boyriend stumbled on the Nazi child sex-slave ring she runs in the basement; or she refuses to eat with her mouth closed, spitting giant chunks of food and blood across the table and to spell out words in Aramaic; or she farts the alphabet whether you want her to or not, it’s something. There’s a big boatload of WTF tugged in that harbor, this is all we know to be certain.

The way the paparazzi bombards her every move, pictures would already exist of her making the most of a urinal, unable to conceal her erection on the red carpet or caught playing a game of “you show me yours, I’ll show you mine” with George Michael in a public restroom.

I believe we’re right to care about Jennifer, we’re hoping for the best. Maybe we’re just angry at ourselves as a community of men, who have let her down and now place more pressure on her romantic happiness due to our actions.

It’s our penises, not hers. Or maybe hers.

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