My Struggle: The Cock-Caboose-Itis Wars

By Jennifer Aniston

As Told to Nora Effeaux

Introduction

. . . the doorbell at 901 Airole Way, Sherman Oaks, rings, the door opens, and . . .

There she is! Jen! Jen Aniston! With that bashful half-smile, Jen, whose latest heartbreak is front page news each week in the supermarket checkout aisle magazines.  Her drug overdoses. betrayals by that back-stabbing Brad, catfights with Angie over the kids. That mess with Princess Kate (or was it Meghan?), her conversion to Buddhism, Jainism, and Mormonism, that mishap with snake-handling in the Ozarks. How she stopped believing in God, then became a nun?  All those times Brad promised her happiness only to run off to Mexico with Angie and the kids.

But now it’s the Jen Aniston whose Twelve-Step Cock-Caboosics Anonymous Program and her iconic Jen Jocks conquered the Cock-Caboose-Itis pandemic, the plague that had turned American men into sex fiends, maniacs, perverts, rapists and non-stop onanists. The Jen Aniston who restored America to its bedrock Leave it to Beaver beliefs by taking back Congress, the White House, the Supreme Court, the Fortune 500 companies, and even Dolly Parton’s Dollywood from the defiant anti-Jocksters who flaunted their refusal to strap on the anti-CCI Jen Jock as a balls-to-the-wall manifesto of don’t-fuck-with-me liberty and up-yours individuality.

And here she is launching her book, My Struggle: The Cock-Caboose-Itis Wars, the insider, tell-all, spill-the-beans, let-it-all-hang-out, unvarnished, warts-and-hickeys-and-all story of her war against the Cock-Caboose-Itis virus, the disease that turned American men into mindless cabooses hooked up to their Johnsons. And how she had to fight not only the disease, but a civil war stirred up by the rich and the powerful who used the disease to try to turn the land of the free and the home of the brave into a nation of helpless and hopeless sex addicts, horny puppets of their cunning and concealed masters.

“Come on in,” Jen says, expertly directing her gaze towards one of the shoulder-held cameras behind the crisp and businesslike but ugly woman who gives Jen a “Hiya” and steps in. One cameraman slips behind Jen and the other stations himself behind the Ugly Interview Broad (UIB), who says, “And here we are, Ms. Aniston – may I call you Jen?”

“You may not.”

“Ooookay. Exciting day for you, Ms. Aniston, and for your fans, and me, the day you are launching My Struggle, already a pre-publication best seller. We are happy, wow, so happy you’re letting us in this fantastic mansion, where you’ve had so many of those brawls with Brad and Angie and Leo your fat fans love to read about while they stand in the check-out aisles of supermarkets to cash in their food stamps. Before we let you plug your book, the only reason you are letting creeps of the press like me intrude on your privacy, anything new on the Jen-Angie-Brad-Leo heartbreak front? Has Brad stabbed you in the back again and run off to Mexico with Angie? Are you on the verge of ending your sorrow with a handful of sleeping pills and a trip to detox? We wanna know.”

“I don’t think anybody is interested,” Jen replied, “in my secret sorrows and sufferings. Do they wanna know that I am, once again, the victim of the uninhibited sexual antics of Hollywood’s two cutest stars, Brad and Leo. Let’s just say that having sex with those two rascals has its up and downsides, but who’s interested in that?”

“Are you nuts? That’s all we’re interested in. You gotta remember that your fans lead empty, pointless and impoverished lives sprawled out on their Barcaloungers in doublewide trailers, cramming their fat carcasses with Devil Dogs and Eskimo Pies, wolfing down Oxycontin in front of their 80-inch TVs, while phony experts analyze poor Jen’s heartbreaks.”

“If it makes those pathetic fools happy, I can go into all of our escapade and shenanigans. Or,” she dropped her voice to a whisper, “you can just make some shit up like my publicist does.”

“Can I meet her?”

“Sure. Come on out here, Nora,” Jen yells, and a bookish, but attractive kinda-librarian-looking gal, you know, big black-rimmed glasses and dark hair pulled back in a bun,  comes in, waving at the cameras.

“This is my PR gal Nora, pretty much of a genius, and don’t fuck with her, she was a Navy SEAL, one of the first gals to get through SEAL training, and she can kill you seven different ways if you don’t treat me right.”

“Hi Nora,. Mind showing us one of your moves?”

“No problem,” as she playfully lifts one of the cameramen, gear and all, high over her head and slams him headfirst into the couch.

“I think you killed him,” the Ugly Interview Broad says, but he groggily gets to his feet. The second cameraman yells, “That was great. I think I got it all but do it again to make sure.”

“Let’s leave it at that,” the unsightly interviewer tells him. “Time for my standup,” and the two cameramen get into position to tape her introduction.

“We are in the stately mansion of America’s most beloved celebrity, Jennifer Aniston, and I can tell you that she is even cuter in person than on the covers of those supermarket magazines that are the only news source for most of you dolts.  And maybe, just maybe, she’ll take off some of her clothes for us, or maybe all of them.”

Jen winks at the camera and shrugs. “Who knows,” she grins.

“As we all know, under Jen’s courageous leadership, the CCI pandemic has been wiped out. The vast majority of American men have been cured of their CCI affliction through the Jen Aniston 12-step program and the patented Jen Aniston anti-CCI jockstrap. The few CCI holdouts have been driven into remote sections of Indian reservations where they are having their attitudes adjusted by Indian squaws specially trained in the art of unfriendly persuasion.

“Now Jen has written her own account of how she did it. Tell us a little about the book, Jen.”

Jen pulls Nora in front of the cameras. “Let Nora pitch the book to you.  After all, she wrote the fucking thing.”

“Not true, not true,” Nora protests.  “Every word in the book came from Jen.  I just wrote them down. And she is a natural storyteller, I tell it in her own style, no big words, no fancy grammar, and with all her cute little f- and s-bombs.  And don’t worry, Moms of America, the Young Adult version of the book is cleaned up and leaves out all the potty mouth stuff. I think her fans who are functionally literate (if there are any) will be able to understand most of her book. In fact, we pretested the book on a random sample of her stupidest fans, and they got what is for them a passing grade of better than zero on the comprehension test.”

“What do you mean by functionally literate?”

“Yeah, you know, write their names, count to ten, figure out how to pour piss out of a shoe if the instructions are on the sole. And for her fans who can’t read or write, Jen narrated an audio version of the book.”

“Imagine that, boys and girls, you can listen to Jen telling her own story.”

“Even better,” Nora continues, “we got a whole line of branded swag, so if they feel like it her fans can dress up in Jen-branded lingerie, we’ve got plus sizes, and they can buy cardboard stand-up cutouts of Jen, Angie, Brad and Leo to look at while they listen.”

“Well, it don’t get much better than that,” the UIB says. “Now tell us a little about the book.”

“Okey dokey,” Nora says. “And Jen, just jump in whenever you want. First, there probably never has been a book with as many great characters, except maybe the Bible or one of them ’Where’s Waldo’ puzzle books.  And in this book Jen tells all their stories. That’s one of the superlative, sorry about that big word, great ideas that came right from Jen who really is a genius, much smarter than Harvard President Weasel Warienko and all her Phi Beta Kappa goons put together. More about them later.”

“Nah,” Jen breaks in, “the real geniuses are Nora, my hairdresser, and my sexologist Frenchie.”

“Right,” Nora resumes, “all those great characters told their stories to Jen, and she told it all to me, so she has lots of great quotes from all those guys using their own dirty words, it’s like they’re right there with you, while you learn about  all the crazy stuff that went on while Jen was winning the war against Cock-Caboose-Itis. This isn’t one of those as-told-to books by some illiterate celebrity spilling her guts to some hack writer.”

“Nora’s too modest,” Jen says, “She ain’t no hack writer. She can spell words you never heard of, at least I never heard of them. And ya know, you can’t write a book if you can’t spell.” Jen’s voice dropped down to a whisper. “If ya gotta look up every other word, well, ya quit before you finish page one.  At least I did. But at least I have an excuse. Instead of going to college (or high school) I went to acting school where I studied sword-fighting, swinging from ropes, and having orgasms on cue (actually I learned that on the job when I very briefly worked in the adult film industry). On second thought, lady, you think you could cut that part about when I was a porn star?”

“I’m afraid this is live, Ms. Aniston.”

“Oh, what the hell. Some of those skin flics are better than the crap my agent sends me now.”

Nora picks up the story. “We got Harvey Weinstein, you know, he was the pariah of pariahs, everybody hated him, he was the first known victim of CCI, Patient Zero. And it was Howard Stern who came up with the name, Cock-Caboose-Itis when he visited Harvey while old Harvey was in the can at Rikers. Harvey’s such a big part of the story, because after Jen cured him, he was the one who had the idea to turn his cure into the Jen Aniston 12-step CCI Anonymous program. It was also Harvey who figured out how to film everything we did in the CCI wars so that we will be able to make a kind of documentary-thriller-comic-science-fiction-rom-com directed by the pariah team of Woody Allen and Roman Polanski that should clean up the awards at the Oscars and finally get Jen her Oscar as best producer.”

“Actually I’ll share that with Harvey,” Jen says, “who I never had sex with. But that  boy has a way with words (and money) that picks the lock on a girl’s heart (and her entertainment center, too, if you know what I mean).”

“As long as we’re talking about the movie,” Nora says, “ya also got Woody Allen and Roman Polanski redeeming themselves from the pariah garbage heap by pitching in to fight Jen’s enemies. And don’t forget Rosanne. Jen and Harvey put her back on her feet.

“And there are never-before-told stories about cat fights between Angie and Jen, how they pulled each other’s clothes off, how Angie and Jen were both stabbed in the back by that back-stabbing Brad.”

“Is Brad going to tell his side of the story,” the UIB asks breathlessly.

“You bet. As told to Jen. But the book’s real bombshell is that it tells how Jen won her battle against all the powerful forces lined up against her in her war against Cock-Caboose-Itis. It’s incredible. One girl, hardly weighing in at 110 in her underwear (there are pictures) was attacked by, my God, just listing them makes you feel how hopeless it seemed, but our Jen never gave up hope.

“You will learn how Jen’s scientists discovered the cause and the cure for Cock-Caboose-Itis. And don’t worry you don’t have to understand or even believe in science to follow the story, which we have tested on not very bright seven-year-olds.  How Jen’s experts perfected the Jen Aniston Jock that subdued the physical side of CCI, while Jen and Harvey came up with the 12-step program that produces the spiritual renewal of CCI degenerate perverts.

“And then there are the people she had to fight: To start off with, there was Snake Scaramucci, dean of the Harvard Business School and Weasel Warienko, President of Harvard University, the one up in Boston, that’s in a state called Massachusetts, but you don’t have to know any geography to enjoy this book. And it turned out that Snake and Weasel controlled damn near the whole economy of the country through a horrible gang of thugs called Phi Beta Kappa. And if that ain’t bad enough, Governor Andrew Cuomo, the boss of bosses of New York’s five Mafia families, tried to take over the Jen Centers for his own crooked purposes. Bad idea, sucker.

“There is more: those notorious coke-heads, Chuck Schumer and Mitch McConnell, decided to take over the Jen Centers. Not a chance. To say nothing of their hapless cronies, the Joint Chiefs of Staff, who they got as cocaine addled as Robin Williams on his worst days. Lotsa luck, boys.

“If that wasn’t enough, that sneaky President of the United States, aided and abetted by his black-hearted daughter and unscrupulous son-in-law, led the anti-Jen-Jock rebellion that made going JenJock-less the symbol of male freedom and sexual independence for the idiots of this country.  And how that civil war ended with Jen in control of the Fortune 500, Congress, the Supreme Court, the White House, Actors Equity and Dollywood.

“And what a bunch of great guys helped Jen win her battle against CCI and the Anti-Jocksters.  Disgraced FBI Director Jim Comey, who finally trapped the President into strapping  on the Jen Jock he said he would never wear, made him say it looked pretty good on him and told all his shit-for-brains supporters they should wear one too. The kid heroes, Barron and that Buck, Jen’s twelve-year-old boy toy. Indian Chief Geronimo and the top-rated TV medicine man Shitting Bull, who rounded up the anti-jocksters and handed them over to their squaws to torture until they put on their Jen Jocks.

And don’t forget Bernie ‘Real Deal’ Madoff and that other Madoff, Bernie ‘No Relation’ Madoff, and how Jen turned the Weasel and Real Deal and those dangerous criminals in the Harvard Law and Business Schools faculty into useful  citizens, at least until they get a better offer. How Brad blew Snake Scaramucci’s brains out from a hundred feet away, how Little Tuna’s Mafia Midgets and Rosie O’Grady’s Baby Boston Paddywackers wiped out that crook Andrew Cuomo’s Mafia.”

“You’ve left out Ma and Pa and Liannabel.”

“Oh yeah, America’s favorite hill-billy cretin criminal couple, their aged nympho pal Liannabel, and their cronies, the Misfits, those comical hoodlums Igor, the Drunk, Jesus, Beaner, Greaseball and Knockers. Let’s face it, there are so many great characters in this book yer gonna need a scorecard and so, guess what, ya get a scorecard bookmark to help you out.

“There is comedy, how Harvey and I came up with the idea of using our Phi Beta Kappa prisoners to stage those hilarious battle-royal rodeos of blindfolded white idiots knocking the brains out of each other that have become headline entertainment at Juneteenth parties all over the country.”

“Wow! Wow! Double wow. I heard there was also something about robots?”

“Well, yeah, there sure were robots involved but ya gotta buy the book to find out just how Jen used robots to win the civil war.”

“You got enough?” Jen asks.

“Whew, I guess so,” the Ugly Interview Broad says.

“And remember, folks,” Jen tells her fans, “save your receipt from my book and it’ll get you 50% off when the movie comes out, and half price on a Big Slurp Coke and a box of Goobers.”