Megan Fox, Single Again
I don’t want to fuck this chick for the same reason I don’t want to watch a movie with subtitles.
It was announced today that Megan Fox has ended her engagement with Brian Austin Green from the O.G. 90210. And every straight man in Los Angeles cheered. All three of them.
Except me. I just don’t get this chick. She looks like a page of the Wall Street Journal with all that shit written on her. When I see Megan Fox pictures I don’t know whether to jack off or take them to the bathroom for some light reading while I go number two. Writing quotes from Shakespeare on your shoulder blade doesn’t make you deep. It makes you pretentious. Similarly, it doesn’t make you deep to tattoo a poem on your ribcage that you wrote yourself. It makes you a narcissist. Especially when it’s something as trite as, “there once was a little girl who never knew love until a hug broke her HEART.” Nice use of unnecessary caps to punctuate your maudlin point, Meg. I shudder to think of how embarrassed I’d be today if I’d gone through with my plans to get a tattoo of the poem I wrote in middle school, “Mommy, Why Does My Butt Always Hurt After I Spend the Night at Uncle Larry’s?”
Moral? Not every thought that crosses your vapid mind needs to be commemorated in ink on your living flesh.
But I can forgive Megan for having no taste. If I kicked every girl out of my silk-sheeted rotating waterbed who had some bad ink, that five-some I had would have been reduced to a lonesome one-some. However, I can’t forgive that she tattooed “Brian” next to her in/out-box. Helpful guidelines for the ladies when selecting tattoos: if you’re going to write the name of your lover next to your honey pot in permanent ink, always make sure that 1) he’ll be the only man who ever gets to see it and 2) that man was not a cheeseball alumn of 90210. Because unlike 90210 which still walks today like a zombie across the CW’s rotting schedule, such a relationship won’t last forever. Before Megan’s recent and inevitable break-up with Brian Austin Green, she told FHM in regards to the tattoo, “[If it doesn’t work out] I can always have a kid and name him Brian.” Yeah, I’m sure the father will have no problem naming his son after the dude who broke in your O-ring (any chick into tattoos is also into anal - it’s a fact, just read your Bible), a guy you only hooked up with in the first place because he played the dork on a serialized abortion, you star-fucking fame-chaser. And the kid probably won’t think it’s creepy that mommy has his name stenciled next to her hoo-ha. Plus, I’m sure Megan will want to commemorate the birth of her offspring by memorializing one of her ex-boyfriends. God knows when I gaze deep into my child’s eyes, I want to see this:
Maybe her theory needs to be fleshed out a bit before implementation. But beyond all these brilliant and irrefutable condemnations, lies the major truth: you can’t apply new meaning to a moment in time that you CARVED INTO YOUR FUCKING BODY*. We already know what the “Brian” by your vagi-NO means. You can’t change the present by retroactively rewriting history, especially when you’ve already announced that meaning to the world in a national publication. No American actually believes our forefathers inherited this land from the noble savages already here playing in the doo-doo when the Mayflower hit Plymouth Rock. And even if you get something tattooed over his name, David “The Rapping Jew” Silver will always be lurking just below the surface of whatever tribal-sun/dolphin/pixie/poem-you-wrote-on-your-MySpace-blog tattoo you choose to obscure his unholy name. Any self-respecting man’s boner will shrivel from the two degrees of separation between Brian Austin Green and his penis. And by the way, telling us you have a back-up plan for future meanings of your tattoo only tells us that it really doesn’t mean a fucking thing at all. That you don’t mean a fucking thing at all. ‘Course, I already knew you were as empty as my gas tank just from watching the Transformers trailer, but thanks for confirming it for the rest of the world.
*That’s how you use caps to make a point, dummy.
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