Dear Ms. Ryan
Let's not fool ourselves, we're not kids anymore. My prime passed like burger drippings on hot charcoal and yours, well -- whoa, wait a second -- I'm not going to touch that one with a boathook! You are only getting more beautiful and more desirable 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.
Meg, 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. There's something between us, something wild and explosive, that's grown too big to ignore anymore.
It's time to talk, babe, to make love like wolverines, and most of all, to heal.
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 unmanageable pain since Dink, my wiener dog, died.  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 the Mid East and stick with romantic comedies.
I fell in love with you all over again in "You've Got Mail." I stretched out on my futon with a giant bag of pistachios 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 codicils in actors' contracts, right? But if Meg Ryan had shown up looking like a walrus, she'd have been dragged away by security. Yes, I think so: double standards). Of course, Tom's so skinny again after "Castaway," he could do a "Bachelor Party" remake -- that would be neat (remember "Mr. Dick" and the pimp who looked like Mahatma Gandhi? ). Fat or thin, I think Tom's a terrific human being.
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. Bad break.
Regarding "Kate & Leopold" -- straight talk between friends -- I'd avoid the straw-hair look.
I still don't trust myself to speak about your recent on-screen nudity, except ... One look at you and a bag of fries -- I've got hungry eyes! (The unfortunate reference to "fries" is made necessary by copyright issues.)
Now you want to know more about me. Of course you do. I see you smiling mischievously, licking your red, bee-stung lips, emitting helpless little growls and barks, running your hands over your svelte body and swinging your hips to an inner, sultry, bossa nova beat. Maybe even doing a come hither thing like mermaids do with their arms.
Well, first and foremost, I'm tidy. I'm always crooning, "Tidy is as tidy does." At work, they call me Mr. Tidy-man, which I consider the ultimate compliment. For me, tidiness comes before cleanliness or Godliness -- I'm kind of quirky that way, and don't really care about cleanliness or God. You seemed like the tidy-kind in "Harry Met Sally," not to mention -- Mama Mia! -- the fake orgasm scene. You do that a million times better than any of my ex-girlfriends.
What else? I'm a giver -- give, give, give, that's me. And I always clean my plate. And laughter is super important to me. I love to laugh, titter, snigger, hoot, spurt drinks through my nose, talk with my butt cheeks like Jim Carey, all of it -- though, sadly, there hasn't been too much of that since my breakdown in '99 (Dink, Y2K, Elian Gonzalez). But you've had hard times too; I know that from Star magazine. Together, we'll leave our defeated pasts behind and re-discover the lost continent of joy! We'll run through the daisies, shrieking with delight, and playing pop-goes-the-weasel with the toothy raptors that inevitably infest lost continents.
I had a vasectomy when the kittens, Tweeter and PeeWee, got spayed; the Darwin Awards people gave me the money from their emergency intervention fund. But the snip-snip, the anti-depressants, not even my double-hernia have affected my libido one iota. Hoo-wah! As Al Pacino might exclaim. Hoo-wah! Let's tussle in the straw!
What else? Ok, this is important, I have substantially more hair than what shows up in photographs, especially those looking down from a higher point of view. My mother used to say I resembled Dabney Coleman. Was your father bald by any chance? That would help a lot. Last but not least, due to a neural disorder in my "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 in hand, cameras flashing, as we climb into our limo.
By the way, Renee Zellweger is now O-U-T, OUT of the picture. So don't worry about her. I came on too strong and shouldn't have brought up her extra weight in "Bridget Jones." You'd think I'd have learned by now (doingg!). Still, Renee burned a bridge with me and that's too bad, because I really do like her a lot.
Ms. Ryan, to cut to the chase: I need a woman who's been around the block, but still poses coquettishly on magazine covers in revealing tops. Yes you, you nougie head! You and I have history going back to the Reagan years. You're my wacky Valentine! Not Gwyneth or Nicole, Liz, Kirsten, Kristin, Cathy, Renee or even Lucy McGoohan with the googly left eye in shipping and receiving (we had a brief, hopeless fling after the Christmas party).
Come on, Meg, let's get foolish!
Sincerely, your friend, admirer and biggest fan,
Henry E. Panky, Associate of Arts (candidate)
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