To Angelina:
You came into our life with the emotional baggage of a pampered outer-borough Italian, and the actual baggage of laundry, packed into Hefty Cinch-Sacks.
Your self-appointed nick names (Kim Kardashian of Staten Island, Jolie) never caught on. Because they were terrible. Your colleagues came up with better ones - although we will not let you take ours.
From behind the receptionist desk of Dr. Flynn on Bard Avenue to a summer rental in Seaside Heights, you were destined to become one of the great reality stars of our generation. But something went horribly wrong.
You were - let's face it - a cold bitch. And made no friends. And weren't very interesting, except when you were yelling at people. Then, just like that, you left us.
Like a jilted lover, we took you back for this season's Miami escapade. You continued a pattern of losing friends and making bad nicknames. Missing a bathroom wastebasket with an unfortunate piece of refuse reinforced your casting as a 'dirty little hamster.' Even the Fossil watch given to you by an Latin suitor was undeserved.
Your surprise smush with Vinny - a classic display of unfettered carnal desire, without consequence, or a care - the only redeeming quality of your Miami experience.
It doesn't take much to become a reality superstar. The Situation makes millions off his rock solid abs; Ronnie rides his coke habit like a modern day Tony Montana.
You had your chance at immortality. You blew it, Angelina. Good riddance. Get thee to a nunnery.
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