Dear Angie (can I call you Angie?)
I have stood by you through thick and thin. I backed you up when you and Brad were playing house on the beaches of Nambia after his split with Jen. I have rejoiced and have defended your lows like any good fan would do. You have said and done things that have made me cut a side glance and think, 'Really bitch? Really?' However, when I saw you in person last year with your chocolate brown dress, dazzling smile, and the way you manipulated the audience to a soft, steaming, pile of mush, I knew that you were one fierce bitch and I was proud to be on your team.
Let's cut the crap. The Oscars was a disaster. Diaz can look like a fool with her freaky man arms, J.Lo can look like a fool with her tatas about to spring out and do a show stopping number. You. Are. Not. Suppose. To. Play. The. Fool. You've never had to pose so hard in your life! Lea Michele never even posed that hard in her life! What were you doing? You couldn't feel the breeze hitting your (very pasty) leg as you brought it out like it was show and tell? That pose would've been okay for one (maybe two) photo ops, but you did it for almost every shot. AND BRAD! BRAD! WHERE THE HELL WERE YOU!? You let the woman you love work the carpet like that!? You have been to enough red carpet events to know that, that was not good. You should've pulled her to the side and say "Baby, look, you look amazing, but put that thing away! It looks stupid!" Sure, you probably would've gotten the silent treatment and several days without the Jolie sex, but that's love! Get over it!
And then to add insult to injury you go on stage. The first time presenting in a damn long time. Hair laid, outfit lovely, and makeup nailed. You stood there. Erect. Leg making it's grand debut to the world. It was awkward. It was noticeable. It was a leg. And then the damn winner made fun of you by posing hard. A mere mortal mocking your folly. I love you for looking unfazed as you announced the next category and tucking the offensive appendage back in the dress where it belonged, but the damage was done. "The Leg" had made it's mark.
It will be alright. Sure, Aniston and Chelsea Handler are probably sipping Vodka through a Smart Water bottle laughing their asses off and thanking God there is attention off their bombs of a movie. Sure, there are millions of google searches going on solely based on your leg. Okay, yeah, your leg has now replaced the leg lamp in A Christmas Story. But it's alright. Because you are Angelina fucking Jolie. People seem to forget that you were (and probably still) bat shit cray. Don't worry, you'll be good.
Advice: Make a shirt that says "Talk to the Leg," call your favorite photo agency, pick a nice location where it's just you and one of your kids (yes, one, we don't want your cute gaggle, distracting from the shirt) and just give a small smirk as you strut down the street. Laughing at yourself is the best you can do my love.
xoxo
The NYC Film Chick
I have stood by you through thick and thin. I backed you up when you and Brad were playing house on the beaches of Nambia after his split with Jen. I have rejoiced and have defended your lows like any good fan would do. You have said and done things that have made me cut a side glance and think, 'Really bitch? Really?' However, when I saw you in person last year with your chocolate brown dress, dazzling smile, and the way you manipulated the audience to a soft, steaming, pile of mush, I knew that you were one fierce bitch and I was proud to be on your team.
And then to add insult to injury you go on stage. The first time presenting in a damn long time. Hair laid, outfit lovely, and makeup nailed. You stood there. Erect. Leg making it's grand debut to the world. It was awkward. It was noticeable. It was a leg. And then the damn winner made fun of you by posing hard. A mere mortal mocking your folly. I love you for looking unfazed as you announced the next category and tucking the offensive appendage back in the dress where it belonged, but the damage was done. "The Leg" had made it's mark.
Advice: Make a shirt that says "Talk to the Leg," call your favorite photo agency, pick a nice location where it's just you and one of your kids (yes, one, we don't want your cute gaggle, distracting from the shirt) and just give a small smirk as you strut down the street. Laughing at yourself is the best you can do my love.
xoxo
The NYC Film Chick
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