Nation Mourns For Jennifer

In the flooded streets of New Orleans, the bodies float by like so much driftwood. Exhausted mothers, covered with filth, try in vain to brush the flies from their starving babies eyes. Old men in wheelchairs wonder why they're left to live when all they love is gone. But in this city of sorrow, there is no heartache equal to the pain that numbs the heart of Jennifer Aniston.

"I would trade places... with the refugees... with the homeless... in a moment... if I could," she tells us, and from the sorrow in her eyes we know her words are true. "My life is over... kind of."

Sad... you want sad? Sad you shall get. Somewhere in Hollywood there is a five foot photo of Brad and Jen. In it they are happy, happier than anyone, sharing cocktails on their wedding day. A day that has faded into memory. Now no one wants the photo. (Okay, I'd like it, but the point is neither Brad nor Jen does.)

"It's too heartbreaking for them," says the real estate agent who has tried and failed to return the picture. "And Angelina wouldn't be too thrilled if Brad put it up in his Malibu pad."

Because, as Jennifer would surely tell you as she wiped away the tears, Angelina is a bitch.


2005, M Hoback