Is it weird that Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt, who both make a lot of money — enough money to rebuild New Orleans and personally pledge $5 million to set up a wildlife sanctuary in the north-western province of Battambang — feed their kids fast food? And isn’t Battambang what New Jersey mafia say? It’s weird to me. US Weekly ran this photo of Brangelina shopping in the French Quarter, apparently on their way to eat a French Quarter Pounder. When I saw blond baby Shiloh with her barely prehensile fingers deep in a bag of Lay’s, then read that the family hit up McDonald’s before The Waterhorse and KFC after The Waterhorse, I felt like someone should tell these kids they’re probably eating Waterhorse. I really really wanted to be that person. Especially since their saturated fat movie bookending took place on Christmas Day.
What I appreciate most about this photo is the dangling bag of back-up Cracker Jacks, ready to go, just in case Shiloh manages to finish her potato chips before she and mommy arrive at what is presumably a Hardees. Look, I’ve come to expect fallibility in my stars. I’m never going to get in a car with Kiefer Sutherland or let Amy Winehouse do my makeup or copy answers off of Jamie Lynn Spears’ Sex Ed test. But I guess I had higher dietary expectations of Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt. She had over 200 sensors placed on her face and body to record a 3-D digital skin for Beowulf! I’m not sure why that suggests a raw diet, but it does.
I, with an income of 35,000, who hasn’t recently donated 1 million dollars to Afghan refugees, occasionally ingest the bottom of the processed foods barrel: beef jerky, General Tso’s chicken, spicy salami, Cowtails, Denny’s French Toast Slam, White Castle sliders, Nuts4Nuts, fried cheese, pie on a stick, and my favorite, Twinkies, dipped in a jar of Nutella. My anonymity and poverty have earned me the right to eat Cheese Doodles and then wipe my sticky orange fingers on my second-hand sweat pants.
When Rachel Ray signed on as a spokeswoman for Dunkin Donuts, I didn’t think any less of her. Partly because it wasn’t possible to think any less of her than I already did, but partly because she has never been a beacon of light butter. If a chocolate frosted cake donut could talk, I imagine it would sound an awful lot like Rachel Ray and that I would eat it to shut it up. That’s clever marketing. No, my sole concern with the Rachel Ray/Dunkin Donuts campaign was that she would start abbreviating everything, that a blueberry muffin would all of a sudden be a BM. “Time for a BM at DD!”
But Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt seem like bodily conscious, politically smart, environmentally responsible pretty people, the kind of people who attended the Supersize Me premiere and then recycled their ticket stubs. I need to believe that they sprout alfalfa in their carry-on luggage and make mock meatloaf. And with so much disposable income, is it too much for me to ask that they feed Madox tofu nuggets? Or at least order him the salad shaker?