“Men have no aid to tell them that they’re getting older.
They just see their bodies decaying...
A young, fertile, fruitful woman can help you across that bridge.”
Actress Scarlett Johansson, age 19, in The New York Times
Dear Ms. Johansson
At my last birthday party, several office sycophants heartily insisted that instead of getting older, I was getting better, and though I have no reason to question the sincerity of these lickspittle toadies, still I cannot ignore the ineluctable reality of my body’s relentless decay. Sometimes I feel as if I’m at the threshold of a great bridge, like the Brooklyn Bridge or the Golden Gate, possibly the Throgs Neck, or even that glorious Bridge to the 21st Century that President Clinton referred to with such misplaced hopefulness.
Conversely, I suppose it could just as easily be a big tunnel, like the Channel Chunnel or the Daishimizu Tunnel through the Mikuni Mountain range of Japan.
But, anyway, as I pondered the decomposing carcass which encases my yet lusty and covetous spirit much like the intestinal sheath of the rich, spicy scrap-meat of the sausage, and mulled over this business of bridges and tunnels, I happened to see you in “Lost in Translation.” Oh yum, yum. [Sound effect: eager lip smacking] Beholding your bonny, robust splendor – I was glad to see that your leg had grown back since “Horse Whisperer” – and how the salubrious heat of your blossoming youth perked up even a drubbed and dolorous Bill Murray, made me consider the possibility that whatever bridge (or tunnel) lay before me, it might be advantageous to have a young, fertile, fruitful woman help me on my way. Salome to my flagging Herod, Ellie May to my Uncle Jed, buxom Barbie before my wrinkled Hefner, zaftig Zeta-Jones to my crusty Douglas!
I'm just thinking out loud here.
These last decades of decline, dilapidation and decrepitude might well be bearable, even entertaining, if graced by a passionate, adventurous and full-lipped starlet, who can take the leap of faith older women – fed up, worn down and pissed off by my tired, self-serving shtick – no longer have the energy, interest or credulity to attempt.
Sure, the harsh, barren slopes of Mount Doom with its foul, boiling mudpots of extinction lay before me. But that weary, hopeless crawl would be a heck of a lot more fun with a faithful Samwise Gamgee hoofing me on his back like sack of dough – albeit a female Gamgee as lush, lithe and toothsome as any houri of paradise. To stiffen my pluck, mash my breakfast banana, stew my prunes, share my Ovaltine and finally, at the dark, chill closing of my dwindling day, to cradle me in a friendly way against a full, warm and comforting bosom. Until I finally board that grey ship into the West with Gandalf and Cate Blanchett.
And in return, I shall proffer, without stint, everything I’ve learned from a half a century of sterile, deluded and compromised poltroonery. That wisdom need no longer be lost in the necropolis.
Two fertile, young women, perhaps twins or, minimally, friends willing to wear the same outfits, might make even more sense because then, at least on the Golden Gate Bridge, we wouldn’t have to pay the toll. That all this jabber of bridges, tunnels, mountains, mudpots and Bagginses are only abstractions is frankly beside the point; I’m not one of those guys obsessed with similes and metaphors. The important thing is that the argument for two or three, free-spirited, flesh-and-blood 18 to 23 year-old helpmeets – fruitful, fecund, fructiferous, ripe, nubile, however you want to say it – appears increasingly irrefutable. The more I weigh its pros and its cons -- unemotionally, in the cold, merciless light of reason -- the more common good sense it makes. Bless your heart, I just couldn't see it until you rubbed it into my face.
Out of the mouths of babes. Soft, warm, luscious, full-lipped mouths; red, sweet and invigorating as pomegranate juice.
And we won’t give a damn how a jealous, sour-grapes world judges our April-December love! We’ll shout “Pah!” at censorious gossipmongers, choleric blogsuckers and brazen paparazzi on scooters and helicopters. Indeed, I shall dance a slow, creaking, triumphant jig; fingers snapping above my wispy-haired skull; shaking my slack, crumpled bottom in smug jubilation for their flashing cameras.
Ms. Johansson, I’d be honored to be your grizzled lion in winter.
Sincerely, your fan,
Henry E. Panky, Associate of Arts (candidate)
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