Brad Pitt Seeks Non-Do-Gooder


(This is a satirical dating profile from my book, Fake Personal Ads (Or Real Personal Ads for Fake People).)


My friends say that I am handsome, while other “People” have called me numero uno in the beefcake department, and numero dos in the teriyaki steak department behind Dylan McDermott, who used to be a delivery boy for a Chinese restaurant. So why am I not getting laid? Because I am married to Joan of Arc, a martyr to a greater cause, that being her own massive Messiah Complex; a girl who, by the way, has no problem making movies wherein she blows up cities while wearing an eye patch. My therapist told me that perhaps the eye patch changed my wife from a shallow, bi-polar nymphomaniac who once issued the most libel-proof statement of all time when she told reporters that a romp with then husband, Billy Bob, was the best sex of all time, to what she is now – Saint Angelina who believes that her mental illness can be diffused if passed onto enough offspring.

You know, girls, I live with the damn woman, and even I have lost count of the total number of our “children,” whether adapted from a Tibetan orphanage, or spawned from our Hollywood seed and egg, or found in a basket floating, abandoned, along the Shenandoah River. Nowadays, whenever I am trying to enjoy a moment of non-screaming-kid peace and quiet, with my legs propped up on a recliner and reading a Hustler Magazine, and some new toddler runs around the corner, I barely register surprise – only dread that, in 15 years, I will be financing more than 50 college educations. I just hope the Republicans do not destroy Social Security – or I am truly fucked.

I used to be the ultimate playa, as the only pick-up line I needed was to snap my fingers. Sometimes I mixed it up by snapping thumb to ring finger, or, when in an especially creative mood, using thumb and pinkie (Juliette Lewis fell for that one). Those were days…and long hot sweaty nights that often ended with me climbing out of a window and running for my fancy sports car.

Now I wear four baby harnesses at a time, as onlookers often mistake me for a tree that sprouts Third World babies from my trunk. Or I am following my wife to some godforsaken danger zone where there are more guns than shoes – and no DVD players! Or, on a savior mission to Sierra Leone, the missus is hectoring me to, c’mon Brad, hold that HIV-infected, malaria-ridden, open-sored, one-limbed child and kiss him on the forehead!

In short, what I am looking for are a few ladies, preferably from Jersey, who just want to have a good time, who, if they want to save the world, would rather do it one beer or sexual position at a time. Such ladies think that Darfur is a lottery scratch ticket, Famine is the name of a rock band, and genocide is a form of mouthwash. And don’t worry about the wife – she is too busy saving humanity to notice naughty human behavior right in front of her pretty, self-righteous eyes.

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