Thursday, March 25, 2004
Dear Sarah Jessica Parker,
Happy birthday, you sinewy sex kitten, you. You’re so thin and you’re 39. I’m a little bit frightened to see what happens when you get older and your body starts to atrophy: Sarah Jessica “Where-the-hell- did-that-skinny- sex-starved- bizotch-go?” Parker. It’ll be a good schtick though; with that mop on your gourd, you’ll look like Cousin It moping around all osteoporosis-like. And I’ll be a monkey’s bum if they don’t tap you to play the healer’s wife in the remake of The Princess Bride alongside Gilbert Gottfried. Have fun stohmming the caaastle. I’m not really a fan of your work—maybe Seasons 1 and 2 of Sex and the City, but after that, I learned all I needed to know about women so I stopped watching. Also, you were in an awful Bruce Willis movie once I think, right?
Ah, who gives a rat’s ass, you’re 39. Whoop it up, Parker, Jessica Sarah! Any big plans? Is Matty Broderick going to dance a little number for you? Tell that boy to get back into the movies, will ya? I made you a birthday cake, but your security wouldn’t let it through. It reminded me of that episode of Diff’rent Strokes when Arnold made the cake for Michael Jackson and they hosed it down and ruined it because they thought it was a bomb. The cake I made was cool-ass too, it had a picture of a woman with her legs over her head and it read, “Happy Jessica Sarah Day Porker, I’m heels-over-head for you”.
Say hi to the girls for me.
Sexy in the city,