BREAKING: Brad Pitt is getting divorced.
He was nothing but saintly to Jennifer Aniston, but I guess that just wasn’t good enough for her sitcom ass.
I write to you tonight as a broken man, having suffered almost hourly this evening from flashbacks of the four traumatic uncouplings I endured at the hands of the top-notch attorneys hired by the ungrateful and mostly selfish lovers that I once called wives. Brad, I am with you, brother.
If you have been too busy reading the re-issue of my 1994 best-selling book Namas-Lame: Why Yoga Won’t Last, I will give you the abridged version of the tragic hellscape my great friend Brad Pitt (Editor’s Note: Mr. Crimshaw has never met Mr. Pitt.) has been living in recent days: His once-famous wife, Jennifer Aniston, who played the shrewish Rosalyn on NBC’s short-lived sitcom Friends, has ended her marriage to Brad and is now, from what I understand from my many close personal friends in Hollywood, gallivanting all over the city with a Latin man who is much younger than Brad and who has undoubtedly taken up illegal residence in this country with the intention of pursuing naturalization through nefarious means.
I have not been privy to the discord that clearly plagued their marriage, but I’m going to side with Brad and here’s why: this man is an artist, who routinely churns out films that are twenty to thirty minutes too long, much to the chagrin of his many critics. I have been told on an unquantifiable number of occasions that my career has been too long, and that’s just plum disrespectful to men who have redefined their industries (he film, I thought leadership). If the entire world is going to be against this solitary and underappreciated man, then I will stand with him.
And here’s another thing: Jen, if you’re reading this, you can pound sand, and you better not wander over to Encino, CA any time soon unless you’re ready for an earful and for a man with dangerously high cholesterol to potentially shit on the hood of your car while you pop into Rite Aid.
Yeah, I’m hacked off about it, and it’s because I know just how it feels to be tossed aside like a Dunkin’ Donuts cup in a nature preserve by a woman to whom you gave your everything. While the court records will demonstrate that I was the plaintiff in divorce suits with three of my four ex-wives and that the fourth one died under suspicious circumstances with ultimately no charges brought, those records do not tell the full story. In this country, strong and reasonably loyal husbands — like Brad Pitt and I; we are comparably tragic figures— are being manipulated and used for their great means and diversified streams of income by lazy, scheming, full-chested women looking for a quick buck.
We are beaten down and abused for years by has-been broads with some honestly pretty unsightly split ends, and then, who, in the court of public opinion, is inevitably labeled the villain? Really solid dudes like me and Brad Pitt (who, as I mentioned before, are one).
Look, I’ll say it: America is not ready for handsome, empowered white men in their fifties who drive Teslas to be fully realized sexual beings AND great role models for youths. But guess what, folks. We’re here, finally, and we’re not going to let our notoriously infertile wives hold us back from living out our truth. So get ready. This is our decade.
Jennifer, I hope you got what you wanted out of this, because that’s the kind of thing spiteful people in films and television programs say to those who have wronged them.
Brad, I encourage you to slide into some young for a few months just to get your mind right. Then, make another baseball flick, because that last one was just out of this world. Take your time. Don’t rush. We’ll be waiting for you when you get back.