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Dear Ms. Ryan
In the indescribable Mongol masterpiece, "The Conqueror," Genghis Khan (a magnificently cast John Wayne) opens his cruel, violent heart to his faithful friend and consigliore, Jemuga: "I feel this Tartar woman is for me. My blood says take her! ... What says Jemuga?!" Jemuga is amenable, so Genghis gallops down to kidnap the sultry vixen even as she lounges like a disdainful queen on her two-wheeled, bullock cart. And I thought, Yikes! I could never do that to Meg. She'd open a can of whoop-ass on me!
On the other hand, Susan Hayward, very believable as the sassy Tartar lady, seemed to like it a lot. And she was a big movie star too.
I was mulling this over on the drive back from The Velvet Turtle's early bird buffet, and abruptly turned to Inky Dinky to imperiously demand, "What says Jemuga?!" And, well, Inky just gave me that look, you know, like don't shit a shitter. Oh boy, Inky's got me pegged all right. Her expression said you ain't no Genghis Khan, Bubu.
When I first found Inky lying in the gutter, there was a small nylon tag attached to her stubby little wing, "Inky Dinky the Duckling, fully compliant with The Upholstered and Stuffed Articles Act." I scooped her from the detritus, brushed off her fuzzy parts, took a few tentative sniffs (miraculously, she still had that seductive, new-stuffed-animal smell), and chirped. "Hello Inky Dinky! Pleased to meetcha! Wanna come home with me?" "Very much so!" She replied, and now she lives in the plastic dashboard cave of my Corolla, where a rich man like Donald Trump or Harrison Ford might install a tape deck or cd player.
Mostly Inky stays put in her hidey hole, Ms. Ryan, peeking out upon a world gone crazy with humongous-sized human beings in tractor-trailer sized vehicles waving guns, bibles and flags. However, on rainy days, I'll take Inky Dinky out and nestle her gently into the crown of my baseball cap on the passenger seat beside me as a reminder that the headlights are on. I'll get to PetSmart or Fry's, switch off the engine, reach for the cap to hide my baldness, and there's Inky just sitting there, "Whassup!" She's been riding along, quiet as a mouse, drinking in the sights with those fathomless plastic eyes one can so easily drown in, and I'll think, "What's this? Why is Inky Dinky out of her grotto? Oh, right! The headlights are on! Thanks, Inky!"
Genghis again: "A woman of Samarkand [is] without compare in the arts of love. After them, all other women are like the second pressing of the grape."
I feel the exact same way about you, Ms. Ryan -- to me, you will always be the first squeezing of the grape or the orange -- but now I'm beginning to wonder if you're only jerking me around like a trash-fish on a fishhook for your own mild entertainment. I can't wait forever. (That's not an ultimatum, poppet, only a shy, tender invitation to honest and heartfelt dialogue.) Frankly, if you replied to one of my letters, it would be a little easier to read your signals.
On longer trips, Meg, I'll put Inky on top of the dashboard, but, usually, within a few seconds of leaving the driveway, she'll flop over on her side and just lie there as if sleeping. Like a narcoleptic. And as the hours go by, I'll begin to get anxious: "Inky? Wake up, sweetheart, if you snooze all day, you won't be able to sleep tonight in the motel ... Hey Inky! There's a crow eating something dead on the highway. Hello Mr. Crow!" ... Or "Dinky? How about a rare, juicy steak and fat baked potato slathered in sour cream and butter for dinner? ... Please Inky ... INKY, WAKE UP!"
I'll be shouting and sobbing, pounding the steering wheel, weaving across lanes, honking, and shooting at the wildlife crossing signs with my bow and arrows, the ones with the little rubber suction cups on the tips.
Last month, a state trooper pulled me over, and as I sat there shrieking, with tears and sputum and mucus all over my face and shirt front, scrabbling at his chest with my fingernails -- "Inky's gone! She's dead! Toast!" -- the trooper reached in and picked Inky Dinky up, so very tenderly that I hiccupped in surprise. He sat my fuzzy duckling on the palm of his hand, and said, in a high piping voice out the side of his mouth, "Hi Henry! This is Inky Dinky, and I'm just dandy! Maybe you should lay off the cheap crank and nap for a little while in the next rest area." And suddenly, the Lord's sweet light poured down and life was worth living again. I smiled shyly and burped, and Officer Gonzalez put Ms. Dinky on my shoulder where she quacked, "I love you very much, Henry Panky," in the softest of Mexican accents.
We both waved until the nice policeman disappeared over the horizon, and then I brought Inky up to eye level and admonished her, "Don't you ever scare Poppy like that again!" I kissed her all over, even under the downy nub of her tail, which, like most of her sex, causes her to squeak with pleasure. I also made lots of umm-umm-umm sounds so she knew I wasn't really mad at all, just terribly relieved.
The same uncontrollable passion can be yours, Ms. Ryan, but you have to tell me that you want it, you need it and you can't live without it! Then I can make love to you standing up -- like Pierce Brosnan and Rene Russo in "The Thomas Crown Affair!" Yipes! (Remind me to put on my pelvic truss and back brace.) Or if that doesn't sound appealing, we could maybe have a nice game of Twister or play with my model trains instead.
Megan, that "Sleepless in Seattle" moment has arrived, just like we always knew it would. Are you going to choose some dull, wheezing, panty-waist movie star -- a Russell Crowe or Vin Diesel -- or are you going to meet me and Inky on top of the Empire State Building, while the wind whips the sparse, stray tufts of hair around my head on Valentine's Day? Will you be my Tartar woman of Samarkand?
I think we both know the answer to that question, even without asking Jemuga, so I've enclosed a free twenty minute phone card for your convenience.
Sincerely, your biggest fan,
Henry E. Panky, Associate of Arts (candidate)
By Henry E. Panky
"The Humorist Who Tripped Over A Noodle"
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