do i return the gift?
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September 16, 2003       |       Today's Terrorist Threat Level: Isabel.       |       Happy Birthday, Peter Falk!

Zbornak!
Say, that's a lovely Beatrice Arthur T-shaped Garment on your chest!

poop!

D E A R   J E N

BY
Yankeepotroast



Dear Jen,

Iím sorry. I know youíre still in a state of shock, but the truth is, we were doomed from the start. For one thing, Iím a winter, youíre a fall. Plus, I never told you this, but several years back, me and Matt went to a psychic medium for kicks, and the gypsy lady warned me that one day Iíd be left in emotional ruin by a large-assed Latino. Iíd always assumed she was referring to Luis Guzman, but she probably meant you.

But surely you knew there were problems between us. You know I wanted to wait 11 months before divorce, and you only wanted six. We could never agree on music or room temperature or which coast to live on or the correct pronunciation of ďvase.Ē And we didnít receive blessings from the one person who mattered most: Fred ďRerunĒ Berry.

I think youíve changed, Jen. I donít judge you by the rocks that you got, but youíre no longer Jenny from the Block, no matter what you may sing. Whereís the fly girl I fell in love with? The one who liked to sip Caprisun and eat peanut butter straight from the jar? Now youíre all Crystal and caviar and bitchy. Tell me, where is the love? I think, frankly, your explosive, domineering, diva shtick has lost its charm.

But I guess Iím to blame too. Iím sorry for demanding ďmore rock, less talk.Ē And remember all those calls late at night, that either hung up immediately, or sometimes there would be quiet, gentle sobs on the other end? Iím sorry I accused P. Diddy of that. Turns out, it was Kevin Smith.

Perhaps itís nobodyís fault, really. The stars just werenít aligned for us, Jen. And the goddamn media. Those fucks are real assholes. Tonight, me and Matt are going to leave flaming bags of poop on the stage door to the Access Hollywood studio. How you like that, Pat OíBrien and Nancy OíDell, you pompous sons of bitches?!? E!ís Giuliana, youíre next on my shit list, babe. You lousy fuckers. You talentless parasites only exist because of good people like me. You know I won an Oscar? For writing, yet? Letís see you do that, Mary fucking Hart. People magazine, you fat fucks, how dare you name me Sexiest Man and then two issues later criticize my wardrobe. One day, all you paparazzi will burn in eternal hellfire beside tyrants and rapists and cannibals--

Iím sorry, Jen. I get all wicked pissed at those voyeuristic leeches.

We'll always have Gigli. Also, Jersey Girl, if it ever makes it out of editing.

Love,
Ben






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