Despite popular opinion, I am not a Johnny-come-lately to the Angelina Jolie bandwagon. I’ve been on board since her lips had co-star billing with Denzel in The Bone Collector. Even back then, without knowing anything about Angelina I could tell that, should she ply me with one of her simmering stares and purse her lips into the shape of a corpus luteum about to lovingly eject what would undoubtedly be the most attractive zygote of all time, I would wet myself on the spot like a scolded beagle.
Sex with Angelina always begins in my mind with knife play. Using an ancient Egyptian ceremonial dagger (and inexplicably dressed like Ma Ingalls) Angelina binds my arms and legs and begins to carve symbols of power into my quivering, sausage-scented flesh. These symbols are always powerful and demonic: inverted pentagrams, goat horns, the Enron logo. Anything to make me feel like a naughty little initiate in the temple of Jolie, tasting the forbidden fruit from Angelina’s tree of quasi-evil.
From there we move on to soft-core vampiric role-play that I don’t really feel comfortable relating.
But then! Oh God, but then! We tumble headlong over the cliff of lust, embracing each other in a free-fall, making love madly as we plummet into a huge vat of Pierce Brosnan’s toenail clippings and half-cooked vermicelli.
Whew! What a ride! But it’s not over… as I smoke a chocolate flavored cigarillo, my 74-year-old flab glistening in a post-coital glaze, Angelina works me over with a pair of brass knuckles and a nerf broadsword, kicking my ass up and down Wacker Drive while simultaneously tongue-kissing a black woman dressed like Jon Voight.
Man, I’m exhausted just telling you about it. If you have any spectacular fantasies of your own starring Angelina Jolie, please keep them to yourself you sick bastard. Abe Froman for Masochists that Su…errr… I mean Movies….Abe Froman for Moviesthatsuck…signing off.