part 7. an open letter to lesser gods.
Dear Mr. Robert Pattinson:
This is not a fan letter. I am not a teenage girl. I do not want you to take me to my prom. I do not want to know if you have a favorite jelly bean. But I do want something.
I want you to help me. This is my most desperate hour and even though you are a pretty boy film star and more likely a patchwork of schoolgirl fantasy and a bit of chicken wire than a real human being, it would seem you are my Obi-Wan Kenobi; my only hope. I don’t need to imagine the hurt you endured amid the particularly cruel speculation that your nipples were uneven — I am that unlucky abomination. Asymmetrical nipples is a very real, chronic affliction. And today, as each day since my diagnosis with monster nipples, I suffer.
Living with monster nipples is unimaginable, like Steel Magnolias without Dolly Parton. Multiplied by infinity. Plus two. On steroids. It’s scarier than finding Mr. Belvedere in your closet with a monkey wrench. Each day darker than that movie (I can’t remember the name, but it might be Mr. Baseball) where Bambi’s mother dies. Folks stare at me like I’m Magnum P.I. without the mustache. Forget the entertainment analogies, let me put it another way: if our respective nipples were ice cream flavors, yours would be vanilla, or maybe french vanilla since you’re a heart throb movie star, and mine would be something like raw horse meat. On a given day, I am lucky if only five or eight people assault me with a tack hammer.
This is not a life. Thus my lonely eyes turn to you. You’re a survivor, of sorts. You know the weight of these not-so-twin albatrosses around my neck. Only I don’t have movie star quality nipples to save me. Which is where you come in. I’m not talking about a nipple transplant or even grating some of your nipples into a fine dust that I could sprinkle on myself. Nothing like that. All I ask is that you befriend my much maligned nipples and take up my cause. Not just for me and these wayward teats, but for the tens or millions of others struggling with the public’s scorn. With the appropriate exposure and proper positioning, I believe it would be possible for the bravest of my kind to cross the nipple line and begin to carve out a life among civilization. As the public face for the monster nipple movement, you could make that moment happen.
Think about it. This is an opportunity to establish your legacy. Be remembered not only as the English actor, model, musician, and executive producer, but as an humanitarian icon: the Beastly Bosom Buddy; the Godfather of Miscreant Mammary Glands; the Patron Saint of Peculiar Points; the Mother Theresa of Monster Nipples; the Count of Monte Fisto. Actually, I think that last one is a nickname of Apollo Creed, but depending on your success it may not be out of the question. You could be like Santa Claus, Robin Hood, and Ghandi tied together with Wonder Woman’s Lasso of Truth and deep fried like a corndog.
So please, Mr. Pattinson, get into your fighting clothes and start making the world safe for monster nipples!
Yours in the brotherhood between men and cabbages,
p.s. A bit of housekeeping — should you decline my offer be advised that I am likely to mutilate myself into a hot dog deity. I don’t know if I’ll be able to control my powers.
p.p.s. Also, please keep making those New Moon movies. They’re really, um, great.
p.p.p.s. Any chance you can throw in an autographed 8X10 glossy? If so, please address it as follows: “Dear mmm…pseudonym, I am the tender wind that carries you. Heart your banged-up nipples, you could go from negative to positive -Spunk Ransom.”