If only that Angelina bird would stop poking her nipples into my business. As if she were the be-all, end-all vision of hotness that no man can resist. Please.
She reeks of bad men's aftershave, clearly a leftover from a morning romp with Bradley, and walks with the distinct smell of yeast rising as she passes by. I mean, I get it. She's got a nice little package and all, and carries a chest that could poke holes in drywall, but I'm Johnny Fricking Depp for God sakes. I get to choose who I glaze and who I pass on, and this bird is clearly seen some mileage.
Now, if my assistant would finally show up with my frothy cappuccino, egg white omelet and rye toast, I could get on with my day. Sadly it involves another love scene with that skank, but thankfully there will be no need to strap Mr. Happy down. Happy does not rise for Ms. Bradgelina.