Dearly departed, we are gathered here today to celebrate a union precious to so many of us, a legend in its time, a ray of light in this bleak world that was darkened too soon: the relationship between Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt.
Let us remember the hats. There was the hat that started it all. The orange fedora (“his favorite”!). The green fedora. The gray fedora. The fluffy trilby. The weird Panama hat. The ugh, I don’t like to look at it. The newsboy. The other newsboy. The other, other newsboy. The — dear god, we get it. (He will probably keep the hats.)
Let us look back fondly on the many times that we were encouraged to imagine them having sex. We thought about when they had sex in a pool. We thought about when they had sex while Jolie wore her Maleficent horns. We thought about when they had lots and lots of pregnant sex. We thought about when they had sex after casually informing their children of their intentions. We thought about the time they made Jennifer Aniston think about when they maybe had sex — or at least made it extremely clear that they would like to have sex — on the set of Mr. & Mrs. Smith.
Let us reflect on when they made a movie about being a rich, beautiful, and profoundly unhappy couple living in European glamour, and then told us that it had nothing to do with their real lives, and that they were “very, very stable.” That, basically, Mommy and Daddy loved each other very much, and that Daddy was just packing his bags because he loved his suitcases, and we believed them. Let us think about how we watched Jolie tell us in a promo for that film that “you can absolutely madly love the same person you want to kill,” and how we saw Pitt sit on the bed next to her as she said it, cigarette in hand, and snicker at this comment, gazing away from his bride and costar and instead at a wall or an assistant or most likely at a mirror, chuckling back at his own reflection like, Duh, of course you want to kill this person you dumb idiot, there is nothing but misery and wanting to kill here. Let us reminisce about how we thought nothing of it.
Let us recall how they swore they would not marry until there was marriage equality in the United States, and how they did so anyway because, I dunno, their kids watched Shrek and stuff, and how we believed there would be no cosmic consequences.
Let us remember the leg.
Let us contemplate the beliefs we once held that we now know to be irrevocably mistaken. That somewhere, someone with sculpted cheekbones is waiting to buy a French chateau with us. That love is a real and attainable feeling that one human being can mutually build with another. That there is love in this cold and dying universe at all. That we, too, might someday be adopted into the Jolie-Pitt clan, and given a new name and new identity, or at least some new sneakers. That Aniston suffered for a good cause.
Let us ponder what once was, and what may come in the future. Let us think, long and hard, about eligible bachelor(ette)s. Let us worry about the horrors still to come.
We commend unto thy hands of mercy, most merciful father, the soul of this our Brangelina departed, and we commit the relationship to the ground, earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Amen.
