Suddenly, Jennifer Aniston’s nipple sonar went off: Somebody was popping nips and their name wasn’t Jennifer Aniston.
“I’ll see about this,” Jennifer said. She quickly turned to her assistant. “Ice me.”
“I SAID, ‘ICE ME!’”
Several cold seconds later, Jennifer Aniston’s nipples were primed like rockets in a missile silo. She motioned for her driver to stop near a pack of paparazzi. Jessica Alba, Rihanna: a day of reckoning is upon thee.
Jennifer Aniston exited the vehicle and immediately began pointing at objects with almost laser-guided precision. Inside her head a maniacal, yet genius, monologue ensued:
“Is that a rock? Now it’s a rock being pointed at by my nipples. What are you drinking? A latte? Now it’s a latte being pointed at by my nipples. Say, is that a bird?”
And then it happened: Jennifer Aniston’s assistant, clearly gone suicidal, attempted to block the nipples with her purse. Her body would later be found in a sand dune on a Mexican beach. The police deduced the culprit’s identity by the two punctures wound in the back, but who would dare prosecute? Anyone worth their badge knew you didn’t go after the nipples. Not in this town. Not in any town…