OK, I’ve had it. I love Jen Aniston, even though no one ever seems to believe it—darlings, it’s Jennifer Garner who I consider the total operator divazilla, not Aniston. Jen’s cool. She loves tequila, queers, sex, flirting and great highlights: What’s not to love about a broad who prioritizes like that?
But dammit, if J.A. ain’t starting to remind me of a total Meg Ryan, the way she simply moons over what Brad did to her—still. True, Pitt was colossal dog-meat material the way he pulled outta that relationship, but honey, Jen, you did hook up with him in the first place. Let’s recall: (a) he was Brad Pitt, salivated by zillions, and (b) he possessed a penis (still does, actually, and it’s a fabulous one, as Angie well knows, why do you think she’s still hangin’ around?). But the point is, creatures with dicks most always act like them, i.e., dicks, in the end.
And just the way Meg R. is still blabbing about what did—or did not—go wrong with Dennis, via Russell, Jennifer A.’s still going from one inappropriate man-date (Vince to John to Gerard) to another. A Jonas bro must be next. At least, Aniston’s getting closer to the right age demo with Butler, but to tell ya the truth, in many ways, he’s the worst of her selections. Smart? No way. Suave? Hah! Studly? OK, maybe Jen’ll get one of her fave habits sated, but then, darling, please, whatever you do—move on, pronto, just as you should have done with Mayer before he prick-dumped you. Pick a winner next time, ‘kay? Actually, never mind, anybody but Clooney and I’ll be happy.