Dear Jennifer Garner--Married Woman to Married Woman
Dear Jennifer,
I know I've never written you a letter before, nor have I ever seen your show, now did I see that movie where you were a 13 year old placed in a stacked, wretchedly dressed body. But you are entitled to take my advice because I am taking the time away from Spongebob and picking the Ritz chips out of the carpet in order to write this to you. So sit down, get comfortable, fix yourself a virgin daquiri and shut up because here comes the best advice you're going to get all day:
Stay away from the Affleck. Gently put it down and walk away. Quickly.
Because Jennifer, even though I don't know one dad-blame thing about you other than that you have the Benbryo safely residing in your uterus and that, I think, you are from West Virginia, I know that your parents raised you better than this. They wanted more from you, Miss Garner, more than to be half Bennifer 2.0. They wanted you to succeed, to be a loose cannon CIA agent or whatever the hell you are. Because if they wanted you to marry a bloated man who hasn't seen the good side of a razor since early 2004 and who suffers from a gambling addiction that rivals that of Dorothy Zbornak on that one episode of the Golden Girls where she lost her job because of the ponies, they wouldn't have sent you to that acting class, or that dance class. They would have just taken you to the nearest trailer park, slapped some Aqua Net on you, and told you to go play nice with the little boys, and by "play nice," they would mean "get knocked up and marry that unemployable bastard." Which is basically what you did, without the Aqua Net.
So Jennifer, I plead to you: run away. It's not going to last anyway. It's only weeks before he runs off with an Atlantic City waitress named Flo who can get him free chips and knows that guy at the blackjack table who says he just might be able to slip you a few, if you know what I'm saying. So run as fast as your bloated ankles will allow you.
Britney says cowboy boots are good for that.
Love,
Morg
I know I've never written you a letter before, nor have I ever seen your show, now did I see that movie where you were a 13 year old placed in a stacked, wretchedly dressed body. But you are entitled to take my advice because I am taking the time away from Spongebob and picking the Ritz chips out of the carpet in order to write this to you. So sit down, get comfortable, fix yourself a virgin daquiri and shut up because here comes the best advice you're going to get all day:
Stay away from the Affleck. Gently put it down and walk away. Quickly.
Because Jennifer, even though I don't know one dad-blame thing about you other than that you have the Benbryo safely residing in your uterus and that, I think, you are from West Virginia, I know that your parents raised you better than this. They wanted more from you, Miss Garner, more than to be half Bennifer 2.0. They wanted you to succeed, to be a loose cannon CIA agent or whatever the hell you are. Because if they wanted you to marry a bloated man who hasn't seen the good side of a razor since early 2004 and who suffers from a gambling addiction that rivals that of Dorothy Zbornak on that one episode of the Golden Girls where she lost her job because of the ponies, they wouldn't have sent you to that acting class, or that dance class. They would have just taken you to the nearest trailer park, slapped some Aqua Net on you, and told you to go play nice with the little boys, and by "play nice," they would mean "get knocked up and marry that unemployable bastard." Which is basically what you did, without the Aqua Net.
So Jennifer, I plead to you: run away. It's not going to last anyway. It's only weeks before he runs off with an Atlantic City waitress named Flo who can get him free chips and knows that guy at the blackjack table who says he just might be able to slip you a few, if you know what I'm saying. So run as fast as your bloated ankles will allow you.
Britney says cowboy boots are good for that.
Love,
Morg
posted by Southern Belle at 8:50 AM
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