Attack of the Drone
Ah, Natalie. My Natalie.
My beautiful, wholesome Semitic American Princess. My tiny ball of kosher for Passover jelly rings of hott.
How could you do this? How could you (allegedly) be dating a smelly yeti of emo-douche?
After all we’ve virtually been through. You have shattered my world. Rendered my entire paradigm off kilter.
Natalie, you are my little ball of Hollywood perfection. My future ex-wife of many fights and passionate makeups. Yes, you’d make me sign a pre-nup. And yes, I’d get nothing when you eventually left me for Dave Grohl in 2010.
But I would sign that pre-nup. After only briefly checking with my lawyer. Because you are my vision. My cherubic dreamgirl of endless fantasy, only occasionally involving kitchenware and rubber.
We would read Gershom Scholem and Moses Maimonides by Israeli candlelight. Then I would rub Crisco on your toes while humming the theme to Silver Spoons.
We would dance on my rooftop sipping Chablais, then you would yell at me for getting freaky with your bathrobe while you were at the gym. And I’d apologize.
Ah, Portman, my Portman. Drop the cycle of endless Hollydouche and join me for chianti by the pool, you in a sexy red bikini, and me scratching myself and wondering if I smelled like onions.
Make my fantasies come true, Natalie my Natalie. Put on librarian glasses and spank me with a pool cue. Make me smell your glove and yell at me for misinterpreting the Talmud. Because I’ve been so very, very naughty.
(Pic, and shout-out back to Egotastic.)
