COLUMN: Brittany

Dear Hollywood starlet Brittany Murphy,

Please stop stalking me.

I'm sorry to bring this up in a public forum. I admit, it was fun at first, but things have gotten out of hand. I realize that I, like my uncle James, am a sex machine. But you need to learn some self-control. The facts are simple. You're MARRIED. I have a GIRLFRIEND. It's just not going to work out, and you need to get that through your head.

It started oh so many years ago. My friends and I purchased tickets to go see a little movie called "Clueless" -- which, of course, we went to out of purely scientific reasons: to see the smokin' hot chick from the Aerosmith videos. Little did I know that you would soon step on screen and make me forget all about Alicia Silverwhatzit.

That's when I made my mistake. When your lovely visage strolled into view for the first time, I turned to one of my friends and whispered my heart-felt passion for the beautiful and eternal unrequited love I instantly felt. Words cannot express the deep emotional connection that you and I shared that day, but what I came up with was fairly close. I believe, in fact, it was something like, "Duuuuuuuuude. That chick is WAY cute AND way hot. High five."

I thought I whispered it under my breath. Apparantly not, because somehow... some WAY... word must have reached you of the virile and sexy man-boy from Illinois with the passionate heart and the magical way with words. That's the only reason I can find as to why you've gone out of your way to haunt my life.

The evidence is over-whelming. See, I'm an average (yet incredibly handsome and intelligent) modest guy. And, speaking for all other average guys, naturally we just want one thing in life: movies and more movies in which Ashton Kutcher gets married. So when Ashton released his seminal getting-married movie, the aptly titled "Just Married," I was one of the many single hip guys in the opening night audience. And just when we were about to enjoy the timeless comedic stylings of Mr. Kutcher, he has to ruin it all by marrying YOU. I was so overcome with undying lust for you that I could barely focus on Ashton's subtle comedic nuances -- I hope you're happy.

It was merely the first of countless films you've inserted yourself into to get my attention, knowing full well that I would one day watch them. You ruined my appreciation of Eminem's struggles in "8 Mile." You gave new meaning to the term "Sin City." You even had the unmitigated gall to interrupt "Girl, Interrupted." I can't even enjoy the hit Fox animated comedy "King of the Hill" without your melodic voice coming out of Luanne's mouth. Back off, sister.

As if appearing non-stop in movies wasn't enough, then you got SERIOUSLY dastardly. That's when you decided to start appearing in my subconscious. There I was in the middle of one of my usual dreams -- wherein I and a rotating cast of friends are chased through Gothic settings by nameless, faceless bad guys (we can save the psychoanalysis for a future column, thanks) -- when I looked over and who was running beside me in my dreamscape but YOU. Why you were only wearing a skimpy bikini was anyone's guess.

And now we've come to this. As I'm writing this very column, film crews are out today in the Quad Cities shooting a made-for-cable disaster movie with the working title "Megafault." The male lead has been announced: It's Eriq LaSalle, best known as Dr. Peter Benson from NBC's "E.R." What HASN'T been announced is the female lead. But I'm a smart guy with ears to the streets, and I've heard rumors who that actress is. I'll give you a hint: it rhymes with Frittany Murphy.

The gossip mill offers a variety of reasons for the secrecy. They say it's a case of an overprotective and loving husband. Or maybe it's a fear of the ruthless Quad City paparazzi who harass me on a daily basis. But it's clear what the REAL reason is why everyone's being so hush-hush: she's in town to secretly stalk me. Apparantly my movies and my dreams just aren't enough, eh, Brittany? You just had to show up in person to chase down the love we dare not speak of.

It's just too late, my dear. I'm in a happy relationship, and you've got a new husband to think of. Our romantic liaison can't happen. Fate has dealt us a semi-sweet hand and our tryst is just not in the cards. The madness must end. I'll do whatever it takes to be left alone. The way I see it, there's only one way to prove once and for all that our love simply can not and must not carry on:

I need to take you to dinner, famous actress Brittany Murphy. Perhaps once and for all, in a romantic setting before a steaming plate of Rossmeat with extra bacon, you'll gaze into my eyes, bear witness to my brute machismo, and once and for all realize that I'm not the humor columnist for you. Tell you what: I'll even pay.

The torment must end. I realize that I'm a hunky, hunky guy. And if the price I must pay for my hunkiness is to constantly fend off A-list Hollywood celebrities with a stick, then so be it. But Brittany Murphy, you need to forget about me. At the very least, you certainly shouldn't call me at the newspaper office Monday through Friday during normal business hours at the number conveniently located in all major Quad City area phone books. And you certainly shouldn't e-mail me at sbrown@qconline.com. Or look up my Facebook profile that I check multiple times in a day. Get over it, babe. It's time to stop living in a fantasy world. Cough.