A love letter to Colonel Broyles (from the alternate universe)
Dear Colonel Broyles (from the alternate universe),
When I first watched Fringe, my crush was on Peter Bishop (and also I love Walter). Now that I’m older (holy crap, you guys, Fringe has been off the air for FOUR YEARS HOW AM I SO OLD YET LOOK SO GOOD?), my affections have turned to you.
Don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing wrong with our universe’s Agent Broyles, who is awesome and never commits treason and wears great suits.
This is a guy you could definitely take to the symphony.
But you, Colonel Broyles (from the alternate universe): You wear those tight little black shirts and I say to my daughter I think he has to hold his arms like that because of his muscles, oh my god, can I please go to the other universe?
And then just kind of, I don’t know, STARE at you?
(My daughter still likes Peter best, though, which is understandable. Reasonable, even.)
VERY reasonable.
You, Colonel Broyles (from the alternate universe), are a devoted father, willing to sacrifice almost anything (not two universes, thank goodness) for your adorable son.
I love you, and I think we should get married.
You know, once you’re out of prison for all the treason you committed for your adorable son.
And, just ’cause, here’s a photo of Lance Reddick kicking it casual style.
A love letter to Sterling Archer
Dear Archer:
You are the best spy/private detective in the world, and I love you.
Tigers are pretty cool, too.
I love your fashion sense, your overconfidence, your ability to improvise, and the sound of your voice.
Call me, H. Jon Benjamin!
You know, literally.
So I can listen to your voice.
Of all the spies in the world, Archer, you’re my favorite, and I love you, and I really, really hope that you didn’t spoiler alert for those who haven’t seen the last season.
Anyway, Archer, provided spoiler alert didn’t happen, I want you to know: I just want you to be happy. Which is why I’m here, today, to tell you that your perfect girl is not Lana Kane, but rather Pam Poovey.
Not that I blame you, because Lana is totally bangin’.
Yes, Archer. Pam. Pam is your perfect girl. You guys have the same terrible sense of humor, the same lack of self-preservation, the same addictive personalities.
And you are so damn cute together.
Look how cute, you guys, ogling strippers together! So cute!
You see, Archer, this is where I usually make my case for myself being the perfect girl for whichever fictional character I love the most right now, but my love for you is so unselfish that I want you to be with Pam.
Now shut up and start dating Pam.
You know, providing ….
*Sob!*
A love letter to Indiana Jones
Dear Indiana Jones,
I’ve always loved you since I was a little girl.
Daddy issues, probably.
Actually, I did go through a phase where I wasn’t that into you, but that’s because my brother was going through a phase where he wore khakis and a fedora, carried a whip, and wanted to be an archeologist, and it just felt wrong to love you then.
Like this, but it’s your brother and not some random cosplayer.
But other than that, I have always, always loved you.
(About as much as I love Han Solo.)
Dear Han Solo:
I’ve always loved you since I was a little girl.
Which is why I think we should get married.
Now, don’t get me wrong. I think Marion Ravenwood is, like, the perfect girl for you. Hell, I think Marion Ravenwood is, like, the perfect girl, full stop. She’s brave, beautiful, can handle alcohol well, and she just seems really like a lot of fun to be around.
And she’s all like: “Eat my smoke, Nazi!”
There’s only one problem with Marion Ravenwood, Indiana. When you procreate with her, you create a Shia LeBeouf.
LOOK AT HIS STUPID HAT! LOOK AT IT!
And that’s terrible. That’s just terrible.
Now I, on the other hand, have a beautiful, talented, non-plagiarizing daughter, so you wouldn’t have to worry about that sort of thing.
Seriously, he is just the worst.
So, let’s get married.
Just you, me and your whip.
We could honeymoon in, oh, I don’t know, Germany? AND FIGHT SOME NAZIS!!!
A love letter to Audrey Horne
Dear Audrey Horne,
You are my perfect girl. You’re the kind of girl that, were we to hook up, people would look at us together and be all: “Man, why is Audrey Horne slumming so hard?”
“Just working out some self-esteem issues. You know.”
And that is my dream, Audrey Horne. To be the girl that people would slum for. Or slum with. Or whatever is grammatically correct.
“I’d say I care, but I’m really slumming here.”
Because, Audrey Horne, I mean, you’re beautiful, right? You’re so beautiful. You’re short, dark and gorgeous. I could look at you for hours, I swear.
Or, you know, days, probably.
And, Audrey Horne, you are, like, so rich. I mean, just so rich. You’re even richer than my rich relatives, who are currently building a house with four fireplaces, like I live in a place that doesn’t even have one fireplace, I can’t imagine being rich enough to have four! And you are richer than that!
I wish I had a fireplace. I’m just so damn chilly all the time.
Also, you have great taste in men, because, like me, you believe that Agent Dale “Coop” Cooper is the perfect boy, and the last few episodes of Twin Peaks never happened, no dating guys who tuck their sweaters into their pants for you.
Although I kind of feel like if Coop was so great, he would have waited for you and then hooked up like mad.
So look me up, Audrey Horne! Or I’ll look you up! Or I’ll watch the new Twin Peaks, but probably not, because it seems like such a bad idea, I don’t know.
I mean, Season Two got just soooo terrible, and nostalgia isn’t a good enough reason to bring back a TV show, I’m looking at you, The X-Files, but maybe it’ll be good, I can’t decide….
Anyway, you’re gorgeous! Love you!
And might I reiterate: Stupid Coop. Stupid, stupid Coop.
A love letter to Jareth, the Goblin King
Dear Jareth, the Goblin King,
You are exactly what I always imagined a goblin king would be like. Tall, crazy-eyed and beautiful. You are, in short, my perfect goblin king.
I also admire your eclectic taste in hairstyles.
I love you.
If you kidnapped my baby half-brother and said you were going to turn him into a goblin, I’d be all: “OK, sure, fine, but when do we get to the enchanted ball and the dancing?”
“I hope it’s soon!”
If you forced me into a labyrinth with tons of Muppets and swamps of eternal stench, I’d be like: “Look, I’m only going through this labyrinth to get to the castle of Jareth, the Goblin King, because I love him.”
“Although a map would help. Seriously.”
If you wanted to sing me songs about how you’re only doing this for me, I’d be all: “…” because I’d be too busy listening to you sing to talk. Unless some of those damn Muppets started yammering on, and then I’d be like: “Shut up, you! The Goblin King is singing.”
“Seriously, you damn Muppets. I will cut you.”
If you wanted me to look like Jennifer Connelly, I’d be all: “Just rub the camera lens with some Vaseline or whatever, and you’ll never be able to tell the difference.”
Pictured here: My long-lost twin.
Anyway, Jareth, the Goblin King, I just want you to know that I love you, and I will always love you, and the world is a colder, darker place without a David Bowie in it.
It’s been hard to process your loss, Rock God I Didn’t Know Personally. I’ll miss you.
A love letter to Bert (from Mary Poppins)
Dear Bert,
Look, I know you’re enamored of a woman who’s practically perfect in every way, and I want you to know that I can’t measure up to that.
See, it’s a joke because measuring tape! Get it?
But, you know, neither can you. I mean, Bert! She’s practically perfect in every way. Can you imagine having to put up with that every day?
“Mary, did you leave your dirty socks in the living room?”
“You know very well I didn’t, Bert, because I’m practically perfect in every way. If there are dirty socks in the living room, they’re either yours, or they belong to that little hussy from down the way!”
I know that was a pretty specific example, but lately people have been leaving their dirty socks in my living room and I’d really like them to knock it off, sweetheart, I know you read this blog and Mommy loves you, but please pick up your socks.
I know it’s nasty, but maybe if you just tossed them in the hamper in the first place…?
Anyway, because Mary Poppins is practically perfect in every way and also looks like a young Julie Andrews, I really don’t blame you for loving her. I also love her, and would like to invite you two over for dinner on my ceiling, except imagine that “dinner on my ceiling” is a euphemism, wink, wink, nudge, nudge.
Yeah, I was actually hoping you guys might do some dusting up there.
… I think I’ve kind of lost my train of thought here, Bert.
It’s probably ’cause you two are SO DIRTY.
What I’m trying to say is that Mary Poppins is a nearly perfect human being, and someone like that could never love a mere mortal like you (hah! As if the man who sings Chim Chim Cheree, the best Disney song EVER, is a mere mortal!), but do you know who could, Bert? I could! I could love you like mad. In fact, I already do.
So let’s get married, and you could sweep chimneys, or paint sidewalks, or panhandle, or whatever it is you do for a living, and at night? … We’d dance.
… with penguins.
A love letter to Bob Belcher
Dear Bob Belcher,
You are my perfect man. I mean, except for the mustache. I really don’t like mustaches. Unless they’re connected to a goatee, or even a nicely trimmed beard. But you are kind of funny-looking without the mustache, so … you are my perfect man.
My perfect man is ALWAYS happy to be around hamburgers.
I love how accepting you are of your family’s strange behaviors. And they’re all strange. Especially Tina. And Gene. Also Linda. But not Louise, because Louise is perfect.
Hey, Louise, if your dad’s not interested, call me when you’re older, ‘kay?
I love how you’re a hamburger chef, because sometimes, Bob, I don’t feel like making dinner. Sometimes, Bob, I get home from work and I don’t want to make dinner at all. So we could have hamburgers! Or something! You like cooking, right? You would make dinner for me, right?
I would especially enjoy the Edward James Olive-Most Burger.
I love how you always try your best, and also how when you talk to inanimate objects, you make them talk back. That’s so endearing! In fact, lately I’ve started talking to inanimate objects and having them talk back. It’s probably because I love you so much, or because I watch too much TV and am easily influenced.
I haven’t blinked in years.
I love how you get along with all your neighbors, except for Jimmy Pesto, because he’s a jerk, and that mean old lady from the arts and crafts store. She’s really mean! You’re totally in the right not to like her! And I support you in that, even if it means I wouldn’t be able to buy crafting supplies. But why would I need crafting supplies when I have the love of a good man who once accidentally made out with his sister-in-law?
At least she dresses tastefully.
Get it? Because of the shrimp! Tastefully!
So, Bob, if anything happens to Linda — and not that I want anything to happen to Linda, God, no, I love that woman, and I would never, never push her in front of a car just to propel you into early widower-hood — I’d like you to keep me in mind. We could double-date with, I don’t know, Marshmallow.
Because Marshmallow always looks pretty, that’s why.
A love letter to Echo the Ventriloquist
Dear Lon Chaney,
What? There’s nothing wrong with having a crush on someone who’s been dead for over 80 years. THERE’S NOTHING WRONG, I SAY.
I mean:
Dear Echo the Ventriloquist, the main character in the 1925 silent film The Unholy Three,
How’s it going? I’m sure it must be tough for you right now, what with your girlfriend dumping you and your partners in crime getting mauled to death by a a gorilla.
I want you to know: I’m here for you. And by “here,” I mean, “about 90 years in the future, unable to invent a time machine.”
But still! It must have been so hard for you, after you went to all that effort! Although I’m not quite sure why you had to commit to such a convoluted plot: First, you disguise yourself as a harmless little old lady, the strong man as your son or possibly trophy husband, and the dwarf as a toddler. Then you open a bird store and use your ventriloquism skills to convince rich people to buy parrots. Then you deliver the parrots to their houses, which you then rob. And you call yourselves “the unholy three,” because movie titles need to come from somewhere, I guess.
… That’s actually a pretty unholy trio, now that I think about it.
In the meantime, you’ve enlisted your pickpocket girlfriend to pose as your granddaughter, and you hire some dude to work at your phony bird store, and I don’t know why any of this was even necessary. Also, why did you insist on bringing that gorilla along? Were you really planning all along to murder your treacherous partners with the gorilla? Was that really your plan?
“Hey, at least I took off the skirt to do robberies, all right?”
I know it sounds like I’m criticizing you, Echo the Ventriloquist, but I assure you, I’m not. (Well, maybe I am, a little.) The truth is, I love you because of your fondness for overly-difficult schemes. I love you for your willingness to hop into granny-drag. I love you for your forethought of carrying a violent gorilla around with you everywhere you go, just in case your partners in crime turn on you, which of course they will, because who can trust a strongman and a dwarf? I love you for the way you, when the man your pickpocket girlfriend fell in love with (seriously, WHY DID YOU HIRE THAT DUDE TO WORK AT YOUR BIRD STORE?) was charged with the crime your traitorous cohorts committed, figured the best course of action would be to use ventriloquism to save him from the electric chair! That’s so stupid, it’s adorable!
“I really thought ventriloquism would work!”
Anyway, now that you’ve confessed to the crimes and somehow been forgiven (because that’s totally how the justice system works), and your villainous gang is dead, and your girlfriend has dumped you for the nice guy from the bird store (although what they’ll do for money, I don’t know, since she doesn’t pickpocket any more, and he doesn’t have a job and was recently in prison), and you’ve gone back to the sideshow, I want you to know that I still love you.
But maybe you could get rid of the horrifying dummy?
No matter how ridiculous your movie was. (Maybe the talkie remake is better?)
… Never mind.
A love letter to Edward Scissorhands
Dear Edward Scissorhands,
Let’s get married. I would make a wonderful Mrs. Scissorhands for a multitude of reasons.
Most of them are “You have Johnny Depp’s face.”
Firstly, I think your facial scars are cool. They make you look kind of, you know, dangerous. Like the way your scissorhands make you look kind of dangerous. Dangerous!
Er, maybe that’s too much danger.
Secondly, I hate doing yardwork and you seem to enjoy trimming hedges and the like, so you could do the yardwork and I could not, and we could be cute together when the neighbors come over for a barbecue.
Sometimes we’d do hamburgers, Edward.
Thirdly, I would never make you cut my hair. Unless you wanted to. But don’t do anything crazy with it, because I really hate styling my hair.
Actually, yeah. Please never cut my hair, ever.
Fourthly, I have never dated the rich, popular jock, so I would never ask you to break into his house, thus setting off a chain of events that will end in tragedy.
Fifthly, even if I did set off a chain of events that end in tragedy, I would do it with more panache than Winona Ryder, because I seriously could never understand her popularity, she’s pretty terrible.
Partly I never liked her because of my old boyfriend’s obsession with her, but partly I’ve never liked her because she’s just a mediocre actress.
Sixthly, I think the last name Scissorhands really suits me, and if you won’t marry me, perhaps I should consider getting my name legally changed. Except I can’t remember how to make a cursive capital S, so maybe that’s a bad idea.
Oh, there it is.
But still, we should get married.
But, uh, let’s not have any kids, all right?
A love letter to Simon Petrikov
Dear Simon Petrikov,
I would like you to know that, in this world, there is nothing that makes my heart pitter-pat like a tragic character. And, MAN, are you a tragic character.
*Sniff*
(Also, you have ice powers, and we’ve already determined that as a quality I seek in my perfect man.)
But back to the tragedy! Oh, so much tragedy!
Everyone is crying, please make it STOP!
You were a normal, everyday archeologist, finding magical artifacts here and there. But then, one day, you found the magical artifact that changed your life! Oh! The abject tragedy! Oh! How I regret not having a thesaurus at work!
Synonyms for tragedy include disaster, calamity, catastrophe, cataclysm, misfortune, mishap, blow, trial, tribulation, affliction and adversity.
The crown! The terrible, horrible, wonderful crown! It gave you ice powers and drove you mad! You lost your fiancee, Betty! You lost your job as an archeologist! On the bright side, though, you did survive the apocalypse without undergoing a horrible mutation, which is more than you can say for most of humanity.
Plus you got wizard powers. That’s cool.
In addition to being a tragic figure, Simon Petrikov, you’re a pretty nice guy. You befriend a small little girl (my kingdom! My kingdom for a thesaurus!) and help her after the apocalypse, and before she turns into a vampire!
Synonyms for small include compact, bijou, tiny, miniature and mini.
You like Cheers and know the theme song by heart! That’s so great!
Anyway, Simon Petrikov, what I’m trying to tell you is I adore you. I dote upon you. I care for you. I don’t need a damn thesaurus, Simon Petrikov! I love you!
So if you can’t find a princess willing to marry you — which I’m willing to bet that you won’t, because now that you’ve gone all mad with ice powers, you’re kind of creepy — look me up. I have a cheap plastic crown that I’m willing to cosplay in.
… Although I think I’d rather be Fiona for Halloween.
Hollywood Hates Me 