Real Women Don't Quack.

Dear Ms. Angelina Jolie,

The women of America have some issues with you that need to be addressed. As a result, they have banded together and appointed me as their spokesperson. In that capacity, it falls to me to write you this letter.

We're simply going to have to ask you to stop it.

That's right. Stop it. We've had it and we cannot in good conscience allow you to continue doing what it is you do. Life for the rest of us is becoming unbearable. The men of this nation compare us, and always unfavorably I might add, to you. It's time you started acting like a real woman so the rest of us can catch a break.

Alien goddess that you are, we understand that you may need some direction toward that end. And so to help make the transition easier for you, allow us to offer you the following advice.

First of all, you're going to need to have a lip reduction performed as soon as possible. Your lips have gotten entirely out of hand. When reasonable women are lining up outside plastic surgeon's offices to have fat sucked from their behinds and squirted into their lips in an effort to look more like you, something has gone awry. We are quickly becoming a generation of duck-lipped women and the phrase, "kiss my butt" has taken on a whole new meaning.

Enough already with the tattoos. Our men think you are exotic, but we moms just see a kid that can't quit drawing on herself. If you were our daughter, we'd take your Crayola markers away and make you write one-thousand times, "I will not draw bizarre symbols on my body".

Although you may not know this, a normal woman doesn't typically spend hours and hours in tattoo parlors having some pierced and bearded guy named Viper permanently write things on our stomach. That is partially because we spend all our money on other exotic things like food and electricity and partially because our tummies aren't exactly a flat canvas as they have been stretched out beyond repair by carrying around one or more big-headed babies.

Speaking of big-headed babies, was it entirely necessary to go to Cambodia to get a child? Would it have been too much to ask for you to get drunk and wind up pregnant by someone you really didn't like all that much like the rest of us? Not to mention that real women don't get to fly off to Cambodian-Babies-R-Us to pick out a dark-haired bundle of perfection. No way. If we get one with webbed toes and a lazy eye, we put it in a helmet and love it anyway. That's what being a mother is all about.

A snake as a pet, Angelina? We think not. Our organization will allow dogs, cats, gerbils and even the occasional monkey in a leisure suit, but snakes are not on the approved list of pets for women. If men see you walking around with a snake wrapped around your neck, they don't come running to our rescue when we are standing on the kitchen table screaming, "MOUSE!".

And what in the world were you thinking when you let Billy Bob hand you a vial of blood in place of jewelry? Are you kidding me? It's taken centuries to develop the part of a man's brain that creates mind numbing fear if he forgets his partner's birthday or anniversary. Thanks to you, now we women have to worry that when our men visit the doctor for a rectal exam, they're also shopping for us.

"Would you like a gift card with that urine specimen, Mr. Man?"

Think about that the next time you are tempted to accept DNA instead of a diamond, Angelina.

We are confident that you can make the changes necessary to join the ranks of real women, Ms. Jolie. All it takes is a little effort, a little sensitivity and a lot of late night binge eating. We look forward to seeing the new and improved you at our next meeting or on the cover of our weekly newsletter, "The National Enquirer".

Kindest Regards,
Ms. Crazy On Her Face
President of Real Women Don't Quack



Copyright © 2004, Sherri Bailey
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