Monday, August 23, 2010

an open explanation and apology to katy perry detailing why I cannot possibly accept her forthcoming offer of marriage

Dearest Katy-

Do you mind if I just call you Katy? I feel odd, us being on so familiar of terms and all, referring to you with the traditional epithets; e.g., the glamorous, the ├╝ber-famous, the completely-out-of-my-leagueish, the cartoonish, etc.

I feel obligated to write this post to explain to you why exactly we would not make a great couple. This may come as a bit of a shock to you, because you actually haven't yet suggested we become a couple, nor have you ever, to my knowledge, stepped foot in the Outer Mongolian Desert Corner of the Internet that this publication inhabits. But, in my infinite foresight, I believe you will, one day, in fact, be led here, and, naturally, fall desperately and head-over-heelsily in love with me, as so many hapless women before you have.1

First off, I must confess that I am only obliquely familiar with your work, beyond my intimate acquaintance (courtesy of every radio station known to man) of the Pox Upon Our Society that is California Gurls. But, having recently read about you in the New York Times, I feel I can say with some certainty that our fragile non-relationship just won't last.

True, we are both stunningly attractive.2 True, we both come from religious backgrounds. True, we are both decent singers (you more than me, of course).

I hesitate to call this off so soon after having visions of us on road trips in our Swagger Wagon with our progeny in the back, as we take turns providing them with renditions of "I Kissed a Girl", one of your songs, whatever their titles may be. You would likely be thrilled to be married to a man of my performing ability and talent. Back in the day I was the member of a band that met for three entire rehearsals before dissolving due to lack of interest, social skills, and freedom from jail time.

It would also be tragic to deny you the opportunity to marry someone with the same last name. There would be no awkward conversations about switching names, hyphenating names, or any of that nonsense. We could be Mrs. and Mr. Perry from day one. Of course, I suppose you could hyphenate if you desire, though I, personally, would consider that strangely appropriate as a name for a cereal. Perry-Perry Crunch, for example. Hmmmm. I'll have our lawyers look into trademarking that.

Perhaps best of all, you would be absolutely assured that I would never cheat on you, like other high-profile husbands. As obtaining smoochies has up until now proved a Herculean task, I have no reason to believe that will change after our marriage.

Nevertheless, I foresee a few minor conflicts in our future.

For instance, I imagine the demands of a trophy husband would be tremendous.3 I would have a hard time giving up my current lifestyle, which consists of going to work every day with a group of people who are both more experienced and educated than myself, and pretending to be better than them (I imagine your job is quite similar). Your Scrooge McDuck-ian quantity of wealth would immediately cause me to quit, and possess me to a point where I would not be satisfied with life until I had swum in a vault of gold, or had discovered some sort of magic lamp on a crusade with my three nephews. These sorts of jaunts would be very unbecoming of your beloved, and horrendous fodder for the paparazzi.

The schedule would be made more complicated by my habitual Wednesday and Saturday shaving. You would, of course, wish your husband to maintain a clean-shaven appearance (I can only assume your professed enjoyment out of kissing one of your gender originated in the lack of facial hair), and, should you require my trophy services on a Saturday in, say, Kuala Lumpur, I would need assurances that my schedule would not be interrupted. Though, if helpful, I could possibly switch to a Thursday-Sunday schedule.

Another sticking point of our relationship may be that on Saturdays I walk over to the nearby farmer's market with my re-usable shopping bag. I imagine that any children I father will need a reasonable security detail to prevent them from being pummeled when they pop out their tote bags during lunchtime. You will likely object to this on the grounds that you want our children to lead as normal a life as possible, as your current employment appears to consist of riding gigantic ice cream sundaes while wearing a tutu.

Speaking of your wardrobe, I'm afraid it would be difficult to introduce you to my mother should you insist on your traditional non-attire. Our religious sentiments frown on exhibitionism. And drinkingism. And pretty much every other ism you likely encounter during your reveling raucous rock-star party-ism. We do, however, smile upon marshmallow-and-carrot-shavings-infused orange jello-ism, which, I'm told, has almost as much zing as a good J├Ągermeister.

For those reasons, I believe it is for the best that we do not marry. I'm sorry. I know how much I mean to you, but you can plainly see that it wouldn't work out. You'll have to console yourself in the arms of some other rich, ridiculously-attractive, washboarded-absian movie star.

Of which you have no shortage.

Much love,


1. One need only to view my calendar of dates to assure one's self of the lie perpetuated above.
2. Or, to put it how I once did when trying to convince another woman to date me by providing to her a list of (19) reasons why we should, in fact, date, I quote myself directly: "We are both hot".
3. I have to thank my friend Bob for allowing me to use his phrase "trophy husband", which describes him perfectly.

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