And so we turn to the September 2005 issue of Vanity Fair. Let's see -- is there anything in here that might appeal to the Fametracker reader?

Graydon Carter's monthly conspiracy rambling, complete with a bonus picture of the month's featured starlet in her underwear...a short spotlight on a good-looking polo player and what products he favors (jeans: Diesel; watch: Rolex; car: Porsche)...Christopher Hitchens on those bewildering Red States (Nascar? Whaddup with that?)...James Wolcott on porn bios (porn stars! They can't write!)...a piece about crooked Marine recruiting...Karl Rove is a big fat liar...hmmm...anything? Anything?

Oh. Yes. There's some piece in here about Jennifer Aniston.

Let us say straight off that we can't blame Vanity Fair, or the writer in question, Leslie Bennett, for the article on Aniston presented herein. Any way you slice it, this exclusive interview is a formidable coup -- so much so that tabloids from the New York Post to the US/Star/People triumvirate -- or, as we like to call it, Ustarple -- have trumpeted snatches of quotes from the piece as though they were radical new translations of the Dead Sea Scrolls.

This issue will no doubt fly -- fly -- off the newsstands. When I stopped in a Manhattan magazine store earlier this week to see if the issue was yet on sale (for I too needed to devour it! Pronto!), the weary clerk answered my panicked query with a testy "Tomorrow, tomorrow," clearly indicating this was not the first or fourth or fortieth time that someone had come looking for the magazine that day.

And so: a tip of the hat. This article is less...well, an article than a tremendous publicity coup. The only person who stands to benefit more from its publication than does Vanity Fair -- Jen Finally Talks! -- is, of course, the finally-talking Jen herself.

For those of you who've yet to read it, or may be inclined to skip it altogether (pagans! Luddites! Communists!) here's a short summary:

Jennifer Aniston: Plucky, tough, sexy, modest, maternal, valiant, wronged but not a victim. Most definitely not a victim.

Brad Pitt: Lying, conniving, bitch-fucking, emotionally stunted, two-faced, hard-hearted shit.

Now you may get on with your day.

It should be pointed out, however, all this preamble not withstanding, that there's nary a sentence -- not a paragraph, a word, a quote -- in this piece that could not have been blissfully written by Aniston's publicity team. We at Fametracker would love to know what veto power Team Aniston had over the photos, the layout, the quotes ("Why, none! None!," we imagine VF protesting) but, in the end, it probably didn't matter. There's no agenda here except to present Jen's side of the story: airbrushed, polished, and stridently advanced, in the places where she discretely demurs, by her friends, allies and, occasionally, anonymous sources, who may or may not have been prodded to participate by the industrious Team Aniston itself.

It is not our place to question the veracity of this account. It is only our place to point out excerpts such as these:

On Angelina Jolie: "the twice-divorced Jolie -- previously known as a tattooed vixen with a taste for bisexuality, heroin, brotherly incest, mental institutions, and wearing her husband's blood..."

On Brad Pitt: "Pitt could have done more to refute the mean-spirited rumor that his wife wouldn't bear a child..."

On photos of Pitt with Jolie and her son Maddox: "As Pitt publicly flaunted the instant family he had created..."

On Aniston's friends: "Her friends are filled with admiration for the way she's handled the whole mess..."

On Aniston herself: "Although she isn't talking to Pitt these days, Aniston remains in regular contact with his mother, whom she loves dearly...Aniston is struggling to find a deeper meaning in the debacle...Aniston remains calm and thoughtful...she still has faith in the redeeming power of love itself...'I believe in happily ever after.'"

In this corner: Twice divorced! Bisexuality! Heroin! Mental institutions! Mean-spirited rumors! Public flaunting!

And in the other corner, wearing the saintly trunks: Mother loving! Admiration! Deeper meaning! Calmness! Thoughtfulness! Happily ever after! The redeeming power of love!

Why, it hardly seems like a fair fight at all.

Damn that vicious vixen, Angelina Jolie, who's blinded the world into believing she's a caring mother and strong woman, through shameless stunts such as, er, appearing in a flattering photo spread with her son in Vanity Fair just a few months ago.

Damn that duplicitous Brad Pitt, who will no doubt never again grace this magazine's cover, shirtless, dripping, smiling, with a movie to promote!

Let us denounce those villains and sweep Aniston into our understanding arms, as she comes to us, wounded, in her, um, pajama top and black undies and professionally tousled hair.

In fact, if there's any message in this article -- besides the, you know, Aniston = angel, Pitt = devil, Jolie = homewrecking heroin-fiend brother-fucking Delilah message -- it's that, while Aniston may well have the best publicists in the world, she could sure use a better joke writer. Of Pitt's spiky blond hair, she'll "toss off a crack" with a "sly smile": "Billy Idol called -- he wants his look back." Ho, snap! No you did not!

Wait, there's a call on line two. David Spade called, and he wants his joke back.

And when the writer, Bennett, helpfully prods Aniston for a quotable quip, citing Nicole Kidman's totally-not-scripted remark on Letterman, after splitting with Tom Cruise, that she was looking forward to "wearing high heels again," Aniston throws out a jab of her own, complete with a "wry smile" (not to be confused with the sly smile): "I can have a comfortable couch."

You what? Comfortable who?

Oh, yes. Because Brad likes harsh, uncomfortable modern furniture of the type never featured in Vanity Fair. The bastard!

Is Brad Pitt even a human being?

Needless to say, nowhere in this moving paean to the tug and tumult of the human heart does Bennett mention that Aniston is, like, the eighth richest woman in the world. Instead, it's all "it was so hard for them to find time together," with very little "they're so rich they could take ten years off and vacation in Bali full-time if they so chose." Because, you know, the only thing more gruelling than the schedule of a sitcom star -- those brutal, twenty-four-week work years! -- is the schedule of an ex-sitcom star, forced to survive on her syndication millions.

And so it goes. But did we rush out and grab our copy of the issue off the quickly dwindling stack on day one? Yes, we did. Did we read this Puff the Magic Profile in one orgiastic sitting on the hot and stuffy subway ride home? Yes, we did. Do we now feel like we're one iota closer to understanding the "real" story behind Brad and Jen's break-up? No, we do not. Do we care one whit, as we toss Vanity Fair aside, barely sated, and grab at the nearby mound of salty and salacious Ustarples, gobbling them up like roasted peanuts and pausing only for a quick look at brave Jessica's new beach-ready bod? (Nick! What Are You Thinking?!)

No. No, we really don't.