The normally-stoic Angelina Jolie broke down in tears yesterday after broaching the subject of her late mother Marcheline Bertrand at a London press conference for her new movie “The Changeling.” Angelina said of her mother:
“‘Her name was Marcheline, but we used to call her Marshmallow, as a joke, because she was just the softest, most gentle woman in the world. She was really sweet and was never angry - she couldn’t swear to save her life. But when it came to her kids, she was really fierce and so this (film) is very much her, her story.
She was the woman I related to, who had that elegance and strength for knowing what was right.”
Incidentally, the kids in my neighborhood growing up used to call me “marshmallow,” too. But not because of my meek and tenderhearted spirit. Because I was pushing a hundred and fifty pounds in the third grade and required a special desk and chafing cream after kickball. Kids can be real bastards sometimes.
Morticia and Gomez leaving their hotel last night:
In Matthew McConaughey’s mother’s new autobiography “I Amaze Myself,” Mama McConaughey talks about everything from Matthew’s conception to proudly displaying her dead husband’s schlong after he died during intercourse. At least Matthew McConaughey gets it honest. Us Weekly says
“[My husband] and I often said goodbye by making love,” Kay, 77, says. “But one day, all of a sudden, it just happened. I knew that something was wrong, because I didn’t hear anything from him. But it was just the best way to go!”
And when her man couldn’t be revived, she made sure he was taken from the house in the buff. “I was just so proud to show off my big old Jim McConaughey — and his gift,” she says.
And I’m sure the EMT’s thanked her profusely for her gift. Old man balls are one of those gifts that keep on giving. Primarily by haunting your memories and showing up in nightmares all shriveled and droopy and covered in wiry gray hairs, like two avocados suspended in the feet of old pantyhose hanging over a shower rod.
Anyway, I’ve come to terms with the fact that my parents at some point had relations. It’s an unfortunate truth that everybody has to face with eventually. But it’s one of those things that should be vague and hazy and devoid of specific details, like that accounting class I took my freshman year. At no point should you be able to give accurate descriptions of your father’s genitals or his penchant for back door/grundle action. That’s the kind of stuff that makes you grow up to be a serial killer or some loon who plays bongos in the buff. See Matthew McConaughey for details.
