Jennifer, it's me, God. Everything's going to be fine. Keep sleeping. This is not a dream. I repeat: Not A Dream. IT'S A DREAM COME TRUE!

Right off I gotta tell you: I am such a fan: The Good Girl. You took chances. I admire that. Along Came Polly made this old fart laugh. And Friends . . . What can I say? Everybody Loves Rachel!

Anyhow. Got your prayer here in front of me. Paperwork seems to be in order. One or two details, then we're good to go.

Sez here you would like Brad and Angelina killed. ASAP. Lo que sea!

Further: you'd like that "effin' bitch," and here I quote - cut up into about a gazillion pieces, sautéed, and shoved down the throat of anyone stupid enough to sit through Laura Croft: Tomb Raider. - Unquote. Jennifer, my young friend: the physical redistribution part, I'm down with, really, but the extreme eating . . . that's gonna require approval from the boys on the Kashrut Board. Minimum six weeks before we hear back and they might turn us down. And since we're under the gun here what say we just beat the crap outta her?

About Brad. I'm lookin at five, single spaced, typed pages filled with the word SUFFER. Rachel? Your F4 key stick?

Why am I doing this? What's in it for me? Jen, it's not about me. It's what I can do for you. I know those tabloid photos hurt you. Restoring your faith in a God who believes, like you do, that a ghastly, blood-spattered "accident" should happen to a pair of bad apples like Brad and Angie, that's my reward. You're the answer to my prayer.

Caveat, Jen: You'll have to deny categorically any involvement on my part in our little contretemps. I'm here for you. You got my back?

Let me run a possible scenario by you. Off the top of my head.

B and A go to a benefit screening of Mr. and Mrs. Smith. Proceeds go to AIDS relief in Africa. You, of course, will be out of town. Filming. On location. Airtight alibi.

As they're about to get into their limo for the ride home a huge concert grand piano, don't ask, work with me here, just "happens" to drop from the sky instantly transforming the two of them into a super-sized serving of Ragu Old World Style Marinara Sauce With Bits Of Real Meat. Angie = toast. Brad, per your request, will survive, but just barely. Two. Three. Four days tops. Pain. Pain beyond the reach of morphine. Piano wires sticking out of him like a porcupine. Sound good? Did I forget anything?

Do this a while and you develop a real feel for the work.

Technically speaking, your prayer ends here, with the decease of both parties. However, I've taken the liberty of appending one or two value-added items I believe will enhance your experience with Us. OK?

First, Oprah's gonna call. Act surprised. Make a fuss. She'll want you to do the show. Agree.

On the set, be yourself. A little Hollywood chitchat, some hair and nail tidbits, a few sensitive words about love and loss (tears? your call); a nod towards me, you know, difficult time of life, lapsed Catholic - whatever, renewed faith, moving on, closure, healing, blah, blah, blah the usual talk show BS. I don't see a dry eye in the house. Go with your gut. You're the actress, I'm just a deity. Then a few words about what's next in Jennifer Aniston's life a-a-a-a-a-a-n-d cut. Total time, six to eight minutes. Pieceacake.

My next thought . . . The View! Think about it. The kissing. The bonding. The JoyStarMeredithBarbaraElisabethJen estrogen tsunami. A Barbara Walters Special? "Rappin' with Rache," "Jennifer Aniston: Out of the Race or Just A Pitt Stop? I'm brainstormin' here. Couric is into me for five large so she'll green light us for Today. Regis: dork, Ellen: dyke, you're a class act, so we won't even call them. Anything here you like, say the word, you got it. If not . . . hey, we're both professionals. No hard.

Jennifer. Re: Brad and Angie: Consider it done. Our secret. Entre nous. CSI-LAPD can examine it sixteen ways from Sunday but they'll never find a thing: no prints, DNA, no clues of any kind. No Robert Blake amateur hour here. Unsolvable. Twilight Zone. Very cold case. You're untouchable. For shizzle!

Gotta run. Hugs and kisses. Who loves ya! G.

John Lipman
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