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Angelina Jolie's Son Talks to American Reporter May 23, 2006 - 7:44
SWAKOPMUND, Namibia - (Editor's Note) While the rest of the world was consumed with speculation about the sex, name, and nationality of Angelina Jolie's baby, our favorite blogger/fashionista/emerging novelist, DistressedJeans, scored an exclusive audience with Ms. Jolie's adopted son, Maddox. His stream-of-consciousness monologue revealed the seething discontent behind Maddox' ancient smile and spiky hair. We are privileged to reproduce his observations, which appeared first in DJ's blog More Conversations About Famous People.
When she reached out for me, it was love at first sight. I was small and alone and in need of a good coif. I was living in a place called Cambodia, but from my hut I could hear the distant rumblings of a mystical town called Beverly Hills.
She adopted me, belted me into a front pack, clipped my hair into a style called a Mohawk, and divorced a man named Slingblade, who smelled like cumin and had horrible hair and bad fashion sense.
I was happier than I had ever been. Not only did I have a hot hair style but I had a room full of awesome toys. I had numerous washable tribal tattoos, my own mini-leather jacket and black helmet, not to mention a drum set and a junior Hummer with a hemi. I had a driver and a specially imported nanny who spoke my native language.
I was eating kiddie caviar and washing it down with high quality, bubbly beverages. Everywhere I went, people wanted a piece of the Maddog. My own private airplane and yacht were at my fingertips. Angie was good to me. We were having a great life together. People wanted my photo and autograph. I grew accustomed to flashbulbs and peons chanting my name.
Yup. I was at the top of my game. Life was sweet. And then . . .
. . . unfortunately I made the mistake of asking Mummy to take me to a place where the elephants roamed free and monkeys swung in banana trees. I insisted Mummy buy me my own personal zoo stocked with non-biting and domesticated animals. Instead she purchased for me a small child with large eyes who cried all the time. She was neither non-biting nor domesticated. Was I not clear in my instructions?
I called her The Intruder. Suddenly Mummy stopped carrying me everywhere and I was forced to walk, an activity not exercised on a daily basis. Sure, I had Buzz Lightyear tennis shoes with Velcro straps, but big deal. These legs were meant to stay off the ground unless there was park playing and sand castle building.
I finally understood the notion of three being a crowd. It was tough. I was sad. Confused. And found myself longing for a simpler time.
Enter the other interloper into my semi-charmed life. There was a guy around all the time who pestered me to call him Uncle Brad. How pedestrian! I was having none of it. I called him Mister Bradley, but he bought me the West Coast chopper I had been whining for. Finally I acquiesced to calling him Brad, which he misunderstood as Dad. A paint by number set of scorpions and spiders, a new tattoo, some dinosaur paraphernalia, and I consented.
He took me on a safari guided by a native tribesmen, and before I knew it, he tricked me into agreeing to the last name of Pitt.
Now I needed to tack on Pitt to my last name which completely lacks the panache of Jolie. Jolie-Pitt? Please, I'd rather be Maddox Billy Bob Jolie-Thorton. But I was promised my own wine cellar when I turn seven, so once again, I obliged. I was confident in the knowledge that once I turned ten, I would be able to drop the gauche Pitt and resume Maddox Chivan Jolie, which is stately and grand.
I tried my best to get rid of the Evil Trespassers. I wanted my Angie to myself once again. I relived the glory days when it was just the two of us. The midnight helicopter rides, the motorcycle races on the back roads. The jets. The shopping sprees at Toys R Us. Cuddling in the silk sheets watching Spiderman and the Hulk while eating foie gras and lobster chips, washing down our impromptu picnic with sparkling berry juice. Truly, those were divine times.
I thought back to when we last discussed the collaboration of my memoir—and our numerous trips to Haiti, the Dominican Republic, Cambodia, Pakistan, Africa, England, and the Caribbean. Sailing around the world with my personal servant and tutor, private chef, language coach, and my Cambodian history professor, it was all a memory. Zahara and Brad—what kind of names are those?—certainly not the superiority of the moniker Maddox, that was obvious.
I pulled out all the stops to get rid of the Evil One. I, of course, had my own cellular telephone with free long distance, so I used it to my advantage, "Yes . . . you're needed in Antarctica immediately. Something suddenly came up . . . a starring role in a major film, we're talking a box office smash hit! You will be paid a trillion billion dollars for your work!"
When that didn't work, I relied on my gift of sharp vocal impersonation.
"It's me. We need to talk. NOW. I'm having your baby!"
Alas, nothing would pry his cold hands off my Mummy. Not even itching powder in his underpants, a little trick taught to me by one of my playmates.
I was forced to "make nice" even though I don't care to play that game. I was thrust into a globe trotting extravaganza with very little downtime for massages and Legos. Truly, it was quite draining. Plus, I had to actually walk on my legs which was a bitch. I'm a guy who likes the comfort of being carried.
Seriously, it was time to go back to just being me and Angie. When were these people leaving? The large-eyed girl and the man with the black hair and hideous last name needed to be taken care of. I wished I live on The Sopranos. Alas, I was not Italian, nor did I know a burly hitman with a stealthy manner and a discreet nature.
After viewing the film Napolean Dynamite, I insisted on moonboots, which Angie promptly bought for me. She also purchased bags of candy and clipped my hair into a Mohawk, which had been neglected since The Intruders had so rudely interrupted our delicious time together.
Although I had to walk on my own small legs, we held hands, and it was a wondrous and magical time. I was thinking things were finally getting back to normal and then . . .
. . . my world started to stink like a crap-filled diaper. I could read the headlines. Angie was having a baby from her own body this time. No more trips around globe to hand select a sibling for moi. What gives? I felt my own life tumble like a carefully constructed house of Tinker Toys, knocked down with one fell swoop from Uncle Brad's meaty paws.
Even the promise of my own Ducati and a villa in France did little to cheer me. I grumbled and acted difficult. I insisted on being carried and would only eat oysters with melted butter for days at a time, breaking occasionally for Crunchberries. When I realized this situation was not going to improve, in fact—it was only getting worse as I heard the terms "marriage" and "twins"—I had to develop a plan.
I suggested to Mum that I star in my own sitcom, named of course, Maddox World. The networks said NO, even when I threatened to hack off my newly grown mullet and stomp on the ground, wearing my Harry Potter shoes and carrying my Star Wars light saber. What those network yahoos didn't know was that I was a genius at the ancient practice of voodoo. We'll see who's laughing now.
So then I thought to myself, 'Maddox, what's an adorable kid like you going to do with all this talent and charisma packed into designer clad body?' Like a lightening bolt, it hit me. That's it! I would do what all out-of-work and down-on-their-luck guys did. I'd be a rap star!
I'm dropping my single like an atomic bomb, it's called "CamboZao!" Its going to be the hottest thing going, so prepare yourself. It will be on my self-titled debut album named, what else, The Regal Maddox. Naturally I left off the ungainly and tacky surname of Pitt. As if that name would help me sell anything? Please.