The Secret Army of Brad And Angelina

Brad and Angelina have done it again. They've gone and copulated in front of the waiting eyes of our goodhearted press, proving to the news hungry world that longstanding celebrity couples have the ability to hump, and are willing to do it often. These heartfelt efforts have not gone without reward, for has Angelina has bore fruit yet again, in duplicate no less. These youngsters, dubbed codenames "Ft. Knox" and "Marching in" have taken control of all forms of media, forcing shallow story hungry pressmen into a an auctioning frenzy. Once competent men and women are withdrawing college funds and mortgages in order to pay top dollar for the slightest bit of photographic proof that these children exist. And as these poor fools snap picture after picture for a hungry country, they never realize that they're slipping further and further into a diabolical trap.

If these fine people took a few seconds to lay down their Nikons and their Canons and evaluate the situation for what it is, they might realize the close correlation in sounds between the words "family," and "army." They might see that between their pureborn children, and the worldly affiliations of the adopted, they have just enough ties to the socialist regimes to become their own superpower. Vietnamese, South African, Cambodian, all sub-militaristic areas with a history of going against the grain. And now, Brangelina has ties to all of them. Even the eminent births of the pureborn were committed on foreign soils, where dark voodoo rituals and Karl Marx writings were performed during the delivery.

They've bred a small army. an elite tactical unit with strong global ties to overwhelm the system. A single celebrity child is not enough. One youth bred by the famed never survives.
The only way to succeed is with overwhelming force. "Breed them in litters," Brangelina will say "we'll clusterfuck the bastards!" And it will all happen under our noses.

The twins will keep the media occupied. The press loves repeats. They'll be dubbed the "New Mary Kate And Ashley," Olsen 2.0, aka: The good ones. And speculation on their similarities and differences will flood late night television and newsworthy publications like Star and the Enquirer. The adopted son, Maddox, being the oldest and closest to the master plan, will eventually start tying himself to the charities and nonprofit agencies that mom and dad are associated with. Eventually he will become their voice, distributing funds and attention to preselected causes, making sure money ends up in the hands of the allies.

This still leaves three children, to work with. One, most likely the pureborn daughter, will become cannon fodder, falling into the celebrity life of drugs, sex, and exposing oneself in front of cameramen. Taking the Hilton, Lohan, Spears route, they'll captivate the country by their rebellious freespirited attitude, and willingness to do anything for a few extra minutes of attention. The other will go the hippie route, traveling across the world in a vagabond fashion, trying desperately to escape the confines of fame. This of course will be a front, as his true duty will be to act as a liaison between Brangelina and the allies overseas.

The final youth will be the clincher. The quiet one, easily dismissed by a distracted nation. This one will spend his life unattached to any of the burdens of fame the rest of his siblings must endure. Most of the world will even forget he exists. So no one will surely notice when he pays a visit to the White House with a 50 megaton warhead strapped to his chest. The ensuing explosion won't even raise an eyebrow on the American population, as they'll be too attached to their televisions watching the "Brad and Angela Variety Hour" to see what America's favorite wacky new family is doing next.

Within months, the Pledge Of Allegiance will be replaced with the the repeated changing of "Hail Pitt, Praise Jolie," as a true to scale statue of the couple's movie poster from Mr. And Mrs. Smith is raised in the center of what was once our Nation's capital.

Don't say I didn't warn you.