It's High Time George Clooney Settles Down

So anyway Barbara tells me that Mr. George Clooney is going to get married to that gorgeous—and aren’t they all gorgeous, the women he dates—Italian woman named Elisabetta. Now isn’t that just the loveliest name you’ve ever heard? Elisabetta. Sounds like the name of a princess or a really fancy kind of perfume, you know, something classy with diamonds on the bottle that Liz Taylor would approve of. God love her, still making that perfume at 85 years old or however old she is. Now that’s glamour. Mr. George Clooney’s probably taken a few glamour lessons from her, and as well he should, well, except in the marriage department ’cause I mean good Lord get out of here the woman has had more husbands than I’ve had haircuts and I’ve been getting my haircut since the Eisenhower administration.

So anyway Barbara and I were very excited about Mr. George Clooney’s wedding, because the man is gorgeous upon gorgeous and the poor thing has been a bachelor for far too long and he’s not getting any younger and it’s just time he found a nice woman to take care of him as he grows older and joins the rest of us in what Barbara calls “the sexy silver set.” Can you imagine? “The Sexy Silver Set.” The things that come out of that woman’s mouth. If Father McCarthy ever heard her talking like that she’d be saying Hail Marys for the next three years. No, I’m kidding again. But you really shouldn’t say the word “sexy” in church. There’s a time and a place, you know? And it isn’t in between verses of “On Eagle’s Wings.”

Well, anyway, turns out all that excitement about seeing Mr. George Clooney in a tuxedo with a beautiful bride on his gorgeous arm was for nothing, because now they’re saying that he’s not getting married and has no plans to do so. Now, when I heard this, I was devastated. And I have to say, I’m worried about Mr. George Clooney. If he won’t marry Princess Elisabetta, who will he marry? And when? I suppose it’s easier when you look like Cary Grant and own a house in Italy: my Kevin can barely get a woman to take his order at the Applebee’s, much to the delight of that awful Alice Fishby down the street, who is constantly showing off the wedding pictures of her daughter Catherine and her new son-in-law, Jacob, who, if you ask me, looks like he hasn’t seen a bar of soap since the nurse rinsed him off in the maternity ward, but, good for Catherine, God bless ’em, you love who you love, and the lack of soap should never be an obstacle.

All I know is that one of these days, Mr. George Clooney is going to realize that beautiful princess-named women aren’t going wait around for him anymore, and the older he gets, the harder it will be for him to play bachelor and not come off looking a bit silly. Look at that Hugh Hefner out there in that gaudy mansion in California, surrounded by those girls who could be his granddaughters, wearing his pajamas all over town like he just escaped from the cuckoo’s nest. If that ever happens to Mr. George Clooney I just don’t know what I’ll do with myself. A classy man like that should never end up looking like he stepped off the set of an insomnia commercial, wearing his pajamas for the general public, so let’s just hope he comes to his senses soon and finds the right one and settles down. There’s a time when all of us, at a certain age, realize we’re better off with oatmeal than with wild oats. I’m just worried, that’s all. I hate to think that Mr. George Clooney isn’t going to find the right girl. He’s such a catch! I just don’t understand why things just aren’t working out for him and the beautiful women in his life. Love is a very mysterious thing. Not as mysterious as Angelina Jolie’s tattoo, but mysterious just the same.

Anyway, if you’re reading this, Mr. George Clooney, and things with Elisabetta don’t turn out well, god forbid, because she’s just lovely and you seem very happy together despite your inability to get married, you’re always welcome to contact me. I can’t promise you a date though—that’s really up to Albert—if he barks when you come near, I’m afraid romance is not in the cards. Though if you could see it in your heart to give me a passionate embrace outside of Alice Fishby’s house, it would be much appreciated. Wouldn’t that just burn her up? She’d probably call me all sorts of dirty things, though none of them would be as dirty as her hippie son-in-law. No! I’m joking again. We can’t all smell like Liz Taylor perfume, though a little glamour now and then surely never hurt anybody. Well, unless you spray it in your eye, and then you should probably go to the doctor. And if she’s single, give her my Kevin’s number, will you? If Mr. George Clooney isn’t going to give us a wedding, I’m going to have to start pushing for one closer to home.

Your friend and neighbor,
Helen Peters

Earlier: Angelina Jolie’s Inner Thigh Tattoo Is The Most Important Mystery Of Our Time