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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Angelina Jolie Seeks Sperm Donors

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


Angelina Jolie Seeks Sperm Donors


Hi guys, first, let me take off the eye patch that I wore in Sky Captain, and perhaps, then, you will recognize me as Saint Angelina, the photogenic lady who will embrace any leper from another country (a foreign leper is more exotic than someone with flaking limbs from Des Moines), but refuses to talk to my famous dad because he has, of late, developed ugly liver spots on what was once a beautiful, Midnight Cowboy face. There have been many noted saviors of humanity, for instance Jesus, Mother Theresa and Donald Rumsfeld, but I am moving up fast on the pantheon of celestial people, having just passed Pepin the Short for 34th place. My goal is to rival Mother Nature as the supreme Mama of the world, maker of collective lunches far and wide, and a PTA meeting pain-in-the-ass to all and sundry. To achieve this goal, I need to be the mother of more children than can possibly be raised by my battalion of nannies – and my present husband is beginning to not share my longing for a giant brood to help promote my saintliness. In a word, I need sperm.

My friends say that I am attractive, while my stalkers consider me a veritable Helen of Troy, if not Helen Hunt if she looked like me, Angelina. Helen of Troy had the face that launched a thousand ships; well, boys, I have the lips that launched a thousand Melrose Places. Songs, operas and Italian restaurant menus have been written about my famous lips. The U.S. military has tried to recruit them as pillows for our brave men and women serving on the front line. Let’s not forget about my body that is so smoking hot that, while shooting the Tomb Raider movies, the crew on the set had to be weaned of all heterosexual men and Rosie O’Donnell, with the director, Simon West, going so far as to change his sexual orientation. In sum, to be the man to donate sperm to the luscious Angelina Jolie does not require hardship pay – and, come to think of it, I expect the donor to give me money, or, better, to contribute to the fund to elect me as the new Mother Nature.

One of the prerequisites to becoming one of my male donors is that you have the right-sounding name so that, when connected to my own name, it will sound like one name. Brad is the father of some of my children, hence Brangelina. Other possibilities are James, Jamgelina, Sam, Samgelina, and Engelbert, Engelbergelina.

I have engineers at work right now preparing my underground nest. It is modeled on the lair of the queen monster in the movie Aliens, except we have created special defense protocols to protect my hundreds of Angelina eggs from a flame-throwing Sigourney Weaver. Of course, the men who fertilize the various pods will afterward be executed within this giant womb. But, hey, at least you can die knowing you banged Angelina Jolie.

(To learn more about my book, Fake Personal Ads, or my three other books and two screenplays, visit my website: )