Or married to someone named Buck or Conway.
The reason I'm contacting you today God is that I need a favor. I know you're busy what with world hunger and homelessness and disease, but I'm hoping you'll take a minute to consider my request.
Would you please smite Tom Cruise? Just a little smite, mind you. I'm not asking for a swarm of locusts or a generational curse or anything that'll take up a bunch of your time in planning and execution. What I'm looking for here is something my Pop used to call a "love tap" from the almighty creator of the universe so that Tommy Boy will be reminded he's not it.
Here's the thing Lord, the man is really getting on my nerves. If you want me to be honest, and I'm going to bet you do, I've never been a Tom Cruise fan. Whatever magical thing it is about him that makes women go weak in the knees and spontaneously lose brain cells, I surely am immune to it as I've never felt even the tiniest desire to touch his hair or use the phrase, "you complete me" in any situation. Maybe you installed a Tommy shield in my head or something, I don't know. I guess you'll need to check your manufacturer's records for that.
Thankfully, I have largely been able to live my life without so much as thinking about Tom Cruise. I don't watch his movies, don't day dream about him and he never calls or emails, so it's easy to forget he exists.
Until lately.
He's everywhere. If I didn't know better, I'd think you possibly made more than one of him, sort of like flies or mosquitoes. One minute he's slobbering all over himself about the new love of his life, who I am quite sure only had her first period a year or two ago. The next, he's talking to Matt Lauer like he's Carl Jung and Matt is a little dreamy dwarf...and frankly God, if Tommy reads this, he won't even understand what I just said, which proves my point. He needs smitin' like nobody's business.
If you aren't OK with smacking him around a little bit, how about you curse him with a smidge of mental illness maybe? Perhaps a couple of voices telling him to shave his head or just enough OCD to cause him to spend hours on end worrying that the stove isn't really off. And then, here's the best part, don't let him have any medication to ease the insanity. Instead, drop a Richard Simmons video and a pound of bananas on his head. According to the psychology of the Tom, eating fruit while wearing a purple headband and Sweatin to the Oldies will stop the madness in its tracks.
Listen, I know I'm a wee bit disgruntled at the moment and about one missed dose of estrogen away from flying to Washington to address Congress about the public menace that is Tom Cruise, so I'm hoping you'll cut me some slack and maybe leave this request I've made of you off my permanent record. I've done enough damage to that thing the last couple days as I'm nearly positive you were watching when I hopped in the 10 items or less line with 42 things. Oh, and when I gently and lovingly explained to Mr. Man that he could submit a formal written complaint to me regarding his upset at the lack of clean underwear in his drawer...and how many times he could fold it before I shoved it right up his....
nose.
Serenity now. Serenity now. OK. I'm all good. But, please seriously consider this smite thing. I really think it would make us both feel better.
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