How Brad and Angelina have desecrated my childhood memories.

My memory is absolutely awful, a fact to which my good friend Dazrazzle will attest with vigor. I especially have trouble remembering high school happenings, as around the start of my freshman year I became steeped in my inherited “selective memory syndrome,” blockading all long-term memories aside from the soundtrack to RENT and select reruns of Saved by the Bell. (Sadly, I can sing every word to the Ice Cream Sundaes’ music video.) For some reason my recollections of middle and elementary school are much more vivid and long-lasting. It turns out a cocky asshole calling you “gorilla legs” when you’re thirteen sticks out more than acing that eleventh grade French test.

Not all of my memories of the younger years are traumatic. Many of them are pretty random and hilarious. I remember listening to Weird Al Yankovic in Mr. Stern’s humor class, singing along to the classic, “Amish Paradise.” I remember giving a D.A.R.E. speech in front of my entire fourth grade class. (Some successful program THAT was.) I remember tripping down the atrium stairs of the middle school cafeteria while attempting to avoid stepping in a puddle of what appeared to be pee and arising giddy because 1. No one really saw me fall and, 2. I missed the pee.

One memory in particular that has always cracked me up took place in Mr. Abrams’ fifth grade classroom. Mr. Abrams was the epitome of the jolly fat man, a joker who took great pleasure in alerting his students to the reason why making ASSumptions is so dangerous. (ASS-U-ME) For the majority of the year I sat next to a girl named Maryann Jimez, and every morning when Mr. Abrams took attendance, he would tack the same inquiry to the end of Maryann’s name.

“Maryann Jimez. Did you bring in Shiloh today?”

Of course, Mr. Abrams was not referring to the glamour-bomb dropped out of Angelina’s cooch five days ago, but rather the Young Adult book penned by Phyllis Reynolds Nayer. The novel is a Newbury Award winner and according to the updated book jacket, tells “the classic story of a boy and his dog.” I never actually read the thing, but Maryann must have fucking loved that book. Or lost it. All I know is that there was never a time when I thought Mr. Abrams would call Maryann’s name to hear her reply, “Oh yes! I actually DID remember to bring the book in today.” After the first month of bookless mornings it was pretty clear to Mr. Abrams’ entire fifth grade class that Maryann planned to take Shiloh to the grave. Yet Mr. Abrams, for the entertainment of us all, asked about the book until the very last day of class.

So fuck you Brangelina. Fuck you both up the ass. Shiloh is not an African-born, celebrity-bred, paparrazzi-seducing bundle of puke. Shiloh is a book that will never, ever be returned to my elementary school library. Maryann made sure of that.