In defense of Mr. Tom Cruise

It seems to me ofttimes that my life consists in a series of tragedies, and the cross I bear is a heavy one. In these moments this missive is invaluable, for relating the slings and arrows that misfortune foists upon me helps to assuage the pain. But I must not lose sight of the divine ordinance that first made me take up the pen: It is my duty to come to the defense of those peers that the penny dailies devour, and to shine the light of truth upon the slander they print in their execrable social pages. And as of late, these reporters have been engaged in a veritable feast. It is Mr. Tom Cruise who is impaled upon their spit, and Henry Wigglesworth of the Whitehill Courier sits at the head of the table!

A week ago Mr. Cruise moved me to tears with what was the most eloquent and sincere expression of love I have ever heard; bounding up and down upon Lady Oprah Winfrey's chesterfield, he proclaimed his undying devotion to Ms. Katie Holmes and swore lifelong fidelity to her. It was a wondrous sight, one both poignant and delicate, but soon the shadow of the bastardly press was cast upon it. Rather than celebrating their forthcoming union with the zeal traditionally bestowed upon similar ones, the fiends greeted the happy news with nothing but scorn and cynicism, casting doubt upon the honor of the couple's intentions and Mr. Cruise's very romantic persuasion! 

Mr. Cruise and Ms. Holmes' coupling shall not be the first that the penny dailies have run their battering ram through. I have watched with disgust as they have laid siege to royal unions,  and with horror as they drove apart lovers who had crossed the borders of caste and race. In short, no consortium is sacred in the eyes of the Henry Wigglesworths of the world, and those of us of the higher social order are forced to pursue our amorous pleasures in secrecy. Yes, dear reader, I too have a love , but I dare not speak its name. And until our world is one where Mr. Tom Cruise can hoist himself upon a chesterfield and proudly give voice to the patterings of his heart, I shall not breathe a word further upon the matter.

Comments

[Lane Russell]

Dear Sir,

Much as I admire Tom Cruise's latest offerings (Particularly "The Last Samurai"), I must confess some trepidation at this news of his romance with Katie Holmes. I feel it improper for him to take with a woman so many years his junior, even one as lovely as Miss Holmes. However, life is a series of causes and effects, and I myself have made similar decisions, equally ill-advised. From my experiences I have taken my lessons, and it has made me stronger. If, as I suspect, Cruise and Holmes have gone temporarily mad, I can only hope that the passage of time will grant them wisdom to learn from their mistake. If, however, they stay together and are ultimately happy, then I shall also be happy. For my own part, I place no faith nor confidence in love, knowing that it has no power to save or deliver; but rather, imparts all the sweetness of an opium-dream, until the veil be dropped by the beloved's departure, and Life, with its dreary, gray sameness, once more asserts supremacy over the lover's destiny. I no longer concern myself with such trifles, though; the end is far worse than the beginning. If you would live a long and happy life, Sir, heed my hard-won wisdom, I beg you: have nothing to do with Love. It is nothing but madness, and I have never known it to be worth the trouble it causes.

[Madame M]

Dearest Mister Fop,

Pardon me for being so very forward, but I longed to hear some more of your pearls of wisdom! They brighten my day so, and I bid thanks to you for grasping your pen and issuing yet another missive. As for Mister Cruise, alas, I fear that grown men should not soil chesterfields nor any other pieces of furniture on national broadcasts. It is rude and ill-mannered, no matter how enraptured by Love one may be.

And one minor detail: I do believe that Miss Katie Holmes would resent being addressed by some 1950s hybrid such as "Ms" ;o)

Fondly,

Madame M.

[Lord Byron or Yorkenshiresquare]

I am waken by my servant drawing the shades each morn, and as he prepares my tea and a warm bath, I excitedly rub my palms together in sheer anticipation of a possible update on the happenings of a certain sympathetic dandy… but much to my dismay I have found that my longings have been denied as of late! From one man of prestige to another, I humbly request that you share your advisable word with the readers of your delightful missive once again. Much akin to the absence of fine cigars at an opera performance (which I recently had the unfortunate luck to experience), you are indeed missed in your absence.

Warmest regards and salutations,
Lord Byron or Yorkenshiresquare