Hi, Anne, it's me, Daniel. We met once or twice (probably). How are you? Good? Are you eating well? That's good. Good to hear. It's important to be healthy. You know a single apple can provide the human body with more energy than a cup of coffee. Did you know that? It's good information to have. I hope you're eating enough apples, Anne Hathaway.
Look, I'm not gonna beat around the apple bush anymore, Anne Hathaway. We both know what I'm hear to talk to you about. I heard about what happened through the apple vine. I heard you broke up with your boyfriend, Raffaello Follieri. I also heard that he owes a bank something like $500,000. Also, he apparently hasn't filed IRS forms for his stupid nerd foundation for jerks. Also he bounced a $215,000 check last April.
This must be, to put it lightly, a tough time for you, Anne Hathaway. You're probably hurt. You feel betrayed. A little lost. I mean, not too long ago, you said you did things for Raffaello that you never thought you'd do for another person, and here he is, the leading contender for Asshole of the Century. You believed in this guy. You thought he was the one, and suddenly he turns around and...well, he's just not the man you fell in love with, is he? He's a stranger. You must feel absolutely heartbroken.
You shouldn't have to deal with this pain all on your own, Anne Hathaway. There's a better way.
Sit back, Anne Hathaway. I'm gonna go ahead and dim the lights just a little bit.
Goodness, Anne, you've had a long day, doing interviews and press junkets for Get Smart, haven't you? You must be exhausted. Why don't you slip off your shoes and allow me the pleasure of gently massaging your delicate feet with these scented oils? These oils are Lavender scented. I think the Lavender smell goes perfect with the meal I have cooking in the kitchen. What's that, Anne Hathaway? Oh, yes, I'm preparing a nice spiced chicken with a homemade Mushroom Marsala Wine sauce. I've got the garlic mashed potatoes going, too. What? Of course they're homemade, silly, I'd never use instant potatoes on you. You deserve nothing but the best. Instant mashed potatoes are for peasants, not Queens.
Here. You just lie back and relax. I'll put on some smooth Al Green to soothe you while I finish up in the kitchen. Perhaps after dinner, I can interest you in a light romantic comedy, or a warm bubble bath, or possibly some record-breaking marathon reaming? You go ahead and think it over, Darling, I'll pour us some wine.
That is exactly what it would be like if we were together, Anne Hathaway. Every day. Every god damned day.
Now, if the enticing, serene portrait that I've painted isn't enough to entice you to go on at least one (1) date with me, allow me to present:
An Infinite List of Reasons Anne Hathaway Should Turn to Dan O'Brien for Comfort(Shortened to 5 for the sake of brevity and Cracked marketability.)
I Haven't Racked Up Millions of Dollars In Debt-
It's true, I haven't. Call me old fashioned, but I've always held that writing bad checks and failing to properly fill out IRS forms is something only a Jerkoff would do. I want you to know, Anne Hathaway, that my parents, Mamma and Poppa O'Brien, have raised me to be a lot of things. A Gentleman. A Good Listener. An Excellent Cook. Plenty of things, but one thing MOB and POB did not raise, (and they'll tell you this right to your pretty, doe-like face), is a total Jerkoff. If you decide to go on a date with me, I can personally guarantee you that I will pay for dinner with money that I actually have, a promise that your former boyfriend cannot make.
I Have At Least A Cursory Understanding of Some of the Movies You've Made-
I won't lie to you, Anne Hathaway. I didn't see Princess Diaries 1 or 2, but only because I'm pretty sure you didn't really want me to. I got the distinct impression from watching the previews that, for the sake of our relationship, you'd rather I never saw the Princess movies. It was subtle, but you gave a look in the previews that seemed to say "I'm okay with you never seeing this movie, Dan O'Brien," and I was just trying to respect your wishes. And, to prove that I'm interested in your life and career, I promise I'll always at least pretend to know what your movies are about even if I don't see them. (Princesses, right? Nailed it.)
I also would like you to know that I saw Havoc.A whole bunch of times.
I Used to Fight Crime- True story. Years ago, Gladstone and I cleaned up the streets of Rhode Island as famous costumed-street-vigilantes Mace and Machete, (M&M by the media). I hear you hate that the paparazzi is always hounding you. Let me be the first to tell you, Anne Hathaway, that fighting crime has put me in peak physical condition and I am no stranger to protecting beautiful women. It doesn't seem too long ago that I was keeping the women of Rhode Island safe with my unique brand of hard, passionate, sweaty justice. Filthy, filthy justice.
Now that I think about it, if I hadn't hung up the ole Machete a few years ago, it's not unreasonable to assume that Raffaello, due to his flagrant disregard for the laws that govern this fine country, would be one of the weeping criminals wetting himself at the end of my blade. And yes, that would totally happen. I'm speaking from experience here about the pants-wetting. No criminal thinks they're gonna piss all over themselves, but it almost always happens.
Raffaello Hates Me-
As I'm sure you're aware, your former boyfriend and I had a very bitter public feud, and I never really knew why. Maybe he hated me because I'm a wildly popular and influential Cracked Columnist. Or because, as stated earlier, I rarely bounce checks for a quarter of a million dollars. Or maybe it's just because he's hilariously sexually inadequate. After all, I practically emit raw sexuality and erotic virility. (One time a woman got pregnant just by looking at me.) That could be intimidating to anyone, especially your former boyfriend, Raffaello Follieri and his laughably pathetic, almost childlike approach to lovemaking. (Is it true he consults helpful little homemade note cards during sex? That is adorable!) Regardless of the reason, be it my fame, my excellent credit history, or my status as one of America's leading Sex Tyrants, one thing is for certain: Raffaello Follieri hates me.
Now, I ask you: What better way to get back at the man that broke your heart than to throw some footprints on the ceiling of the bedroom of his arch rival? No better way, Anne. There is no better way. That is the best way.