Dear Ms. Ryan
Let's not fool ourselves, we're not kids anymore. My prime passed like hamburger drippings on hot charcoal -- a quick greasy smoke to leave a film on the eyeglasses -- and yours, well -- whoa, wait a second, ummm...let's just say you are only getting more beautiful, desirable and girlishly winsome with every passing day! Anyway, the point being: we've got a few more good years left and -- I'm going to lay my cards on the table -- I want to spend them with you.
Ms. Ryan, look at me. I mean it: this is real. I like the cut of your jib. Ever since I saw you in "Top Gun," we've been circling each other like a cheetah chasing its own tail. Or an armadillo. There's something between us, something wild and explosive, that's grown too big to ignore.
For years, I pretended it wasn't real -- a movie-star fantasy, I told myself -- but when I almost lost you in that Gulf War movie (oh Meggy, a Congressional Medal of Honor!), I hadn't felt so much pain since Dink, my brave wiener dog, passed.  (Dink, they said I'd never tame him.) For weeks after you were machine-gunned by Lou Diamond Philips (Jeez, whatever happened to the sweet boy of "La Bamba?"), I could barely drag myself in to work. Then, the frosting on the cake, I found two thick, long, black hairs growing out of a mole on my back -- like in "The Fly." I squealed with fear! And that's when I vowed I'd never lose you again.
So, please sweetheart, no more war or kidnap movies or bicycle accidents with tractor trailers. Stay out of Colombia and New Jersey, and away from guys like Mr. Ruffalo and Mr. Cage, they're bad news and have too much body hair.
I fell in love with you all over again in "You've Got Mail." I stretched out on my futon with a doobie and a giant can of black olives, and watched you -- nay, devoured you -- weeping and laughing and clapping my hands. You were radiant and sexy and funny and vulnerable! Mr. Hanks looked a bit on the heavy side though. (No weight gain codicil in his contract, right? But if Meg Ryan had shown up with the avoirdupois of a manatee, she'd have been dragged away by security, eh? I think so.) Of course, Tom's so skinny again after "Castaway," he could do a "Bachelor Party" remake. (Remember "Mr. Dick" and the pimp who looked like Mahatma Gandhi? Genius.). Fat or thin, I think Tom's a terrific human being, and I think we should have him and the Mrs. Hanks over some time soon.
I'm not going to say much about "Proof of Life," except that I'm sorry about the little girl you lost in Africa, what's-her-name. That's a bummer. Really, Meg, my heart goes out to you.
And regarding your experiment with full-frontal on-screen nudity, I know there was a lot of controversy, so I want to put this delicately ..."THOU HAST NOURISHED US WITH THY SWEETNESSES!" Alternatively: One look at you and a bag of fries -- and I've got hungry eyes! (The unfortunate reference to "fries" is made necessary by copyright issues.) I am content. Thy name is Woman.
Now you want to know more about me. You're smiling mischievously, licking your bee-stung lips, emitting playful little growls and barks, running your hands over your svelte body and swinging your hips to a sultry bossa-nova beat. Your eyes are smoky with mystery and desire.
Well, first and foremost, I'm tidy. Always crooning, "Tidy is as tidy does" and at work, they call me "Mr. Tidy-man." You seemed like the tidy-kind in "When Harry Met Sally," not to mention -- Mama Mia! -- the fake orgasm scene with Mr. Crystal. You do that with a million times more verve than any of my ex-girlfriends. With me you can be sure you'll always have an appreciative and grateful audience.
What else? I clean my plate and remove the lint from the dryer screen. And laughter and silliness are super important to me -- though there hasn't been much of that since my breakdown in '99 (Dink, Y2K, OJ, the impeachment). But I know from the magazines and blogs that you've had hard times too. Together, Ms. Ryan, we'll leave our defeats and disappointments behind and re-discover the lost continent of joy! We'll run through the leafy foliage, shrieking with delight, playing pop-goes-the-weasel with the toothy raptors that inevitably infest lost continents.
Let's see...I had a vasectomy at the same time Tweeter and PeeWee got "fixed": the vet offered a good price and the Darwin Awards people gave me money from their emergency intervention fund. I assume that's not an issue because you already have the 4 kids by Goose in "Top Gun," and two from the movie where you were an alcoholic, and a smattering of others, I believe. Ms. Ryan -- Mamasita if you don't mind me calling you that -- I shall do my best to father them all appropriately. As long as they're tidy.
Last but not least, due to a neural disorder in my vestigial "tailbone," I have to carry an inflatable rubber "seat donut" around with me. If you can remind me upon leaving awards ceremonies, that will spare us the embarrassment of having Whoopi or Billy run after us, donut waving, cameras flashing, as we scuttle into our Prius.
By the way, Renee Zellweger is now O-U-T, OUT of the picture. I came on too strong and shouldn't have brought up her extra weight in "Bridget Jones." Much less the tear-the-head-off-the-rooster scene in "Cold Mountain." Still, Renee burned a bridge with me and that's too bad, because I really do like her a lot. Though not as much as Gwyneth.
Ms. Ryan, let's cut to the chase: I need a woman who's been around the block -- but still poses coquettishly on magazine covers in revealing tops. (I love revealing tops of virtually any kind.) The truth is, you and I, we're two halves of the same armadillo -- chasing its own tail. So let's climb on that sleek racing hog like Mr. Cruise and Ms. McGillis and ride into the tidy zone!
Sincerely and respectfully, your biggest fan,
Henry E. Panky, Associate of Arts (candidate)
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