Open Letter Wednesday

Rashida Jones
c/o Brillstein-Gray Entertainment
9150 Wilshire Blvd.
Beverly Hills, CA 90212

Dear Rashida,

What up girl? How you livin? I've been seeing you a lot lately, TV, big screen, all that. Them sexy, bottomless-coffee eyes looking back at me saying “I know you dig what you see.” I do, I dig massive. And that’s why we should be together, ya heard? You get me.

I’m no fool so I realize one paragraph isn’t going to cut it; you need supporting evidence. Check this baby, we've got commonalities for days. Your father is an influential musical icon. My father is a deejay for a small-town radio station, and he loves your dad. We both are of Irish ancestry. You went to Harvard and had a supporting role in Boston Public. I live near Harvard and am supported by Boston public transportation. One of my favorite Gap commercials (Everyone in Vests) features you singing and you lend your vocal talents to the first Maroon 5 album. I sing over that shit all the time. It’s eerie, right?

Back in the day, Tupac blasted interracial marriage, specifically between your parents. Your response? An open letter defending the marriage and taking Pac to task, which eventually led to his relationship and engagement to your sister. I’m a wealth of open letters. George Lucas, Big Chicken, Sean Penn, shit, even Mother Nature and chick is an omnipresent entity. Could we be more in tune?

What about your dating history? Tobey McGuire, Seth Myers, John Krasinski. Notice a theme? Talented, funny, dopey dudes. While my talent and hilarity are only appreciated, if not always acknowledged, by the tens (generous estimate) of people that tune into Gorgeous, my dopiness is readily conceded by everyone that knows me.

Peep that, a cornucopia of reasons for you to slide my way. What say we create an unbreakable bond based on mutual admiration of (y)our considerable talents and light a love-fire that burns hotter than 1,000 suns for all eternity? I’m cool with making a stable of vanilla-kissed super babies too. Whatever greases your wheels, darlin.

Tickled and pining,
-Brunswick P. Danforth