By: Quin Asselin
I’m so very, very sorry for the things that I’ve been saying to you and about you. I really respect you, Mr. Chiklis. I respect your work, and I respect as well your intense, I-take-shit-from-no-one attitude. I see now that you really are not a dude I should have endeavored to fuck with in any way, shape, or form. Truly you are a deity with a hairless head that our lowly world is blessed to have.
From the moment I officially met you by having my legs crushed under the wheels of your silver Lexus, I felt a certain special connection between the two of us. A meeting of potential energies turned kinetic, as you would probably have put it, had you not been so startled and angry. I remember just like yesterday how you screamed and hollered at your agent over the phone. “What the hell am I going to do about this?” you repeatedly shouted, all the while pointing down at the mangled marriage of crutches and legs that I’ve since come to recognize as my lower-half. I knew from that moment on that I meant something to you -- that we meant something to each other. We were to be tethered universally, you and I. I was your “this,” and that’s all I ever wanted to be.
I dream every night, sir, of once again seeing that shiny sphere known as your noggin’. I can picture it even now, stretching before me in all directions. I kneel. I pray. I gently lick your head in hopes that the glint of the sun upon it will wear off and I will be able to glean some of your godly perfection. I stretch myself out upon you, like Ted Cruz basking in the hot, morning sun, and I so very gently suck on your impossibly smooth-shaven cranium. I awake each time, and weep to know this was all simply a fantasy.
Now, after your strong reprimands, as well as the several cease and desist letters that finally showed up after some crazy mix up or something, I will make my last attempt to confess my earthly sins to you in hopes that you may absolve me, and in turn follow me back on Twitter (@crazy4chiklis88, if you forgot).
For starters sir, I’ve been tweeting you for several months, be it publicly or via DM, asking about a certain souvenir of yours. I think you know what I’m getting at. As I’m sure you’re aware, after watching Fantastic Four: Rise of the Silver Surfer (featuring arguably your best grunts to date, sir), I gained a sort of curiosity regarding your costume. If you recall, sir, you played The Thing, a hero recognized just as much for his girth and potential-poundage as he was for his courage and character dynamics. After a few consecutive viewings, I found myself, frankly, acting a bit differently. I was thinking differently, speaking differently, missing a wife I never even had.
I started sending everyone -- not just you! -- things like, “Hey there Chiclets, can I grab that orange, stony dong? But only if you ain’t using it, my cuck. Just let me know.” I know now, of course, that you’re not the inventor -- nor do you have anything to do with -- those chewy gummy candies. It was a massive assumption on my part. However, I would like it to be clear that I REALLY do want the dong if you have it. I would be willing to pay some serious dough for it if you’d be willing to meet up and throw in for a wheelchair accessible Uber. Or just an Uber. Or just a wheelchair.
I know what you’re thinking now, Michael. “Wait a minute: did this guy dive in front of my car in order to blackmail me into giving him the prosthetic Johnson worn during my most famed role?” Yes. You nailed it. That’s actually kinda crazy how accurately you nailed that, Michael. Very, very nice.
Let me put all this in context for you, though. I think we’ve maybe gotten off on the wrong foot, or at least I have. (And no, that wasn’t a pun about how my crumpled lower body now resembles a makeout sesh between two teens with braces). I don’t want The Thing’s “Fantastic Forearm” just because it spent hours on end nestled against your integral juices. I’m not some kind of freak. The truth is: I need to put it next to the mouse and keyboard used to render Dr. Manhattans beefy, blue schlong, as well as George Clooney’s codpiece from the 1997 hit Batman & Robin. I need it for my collection of superhero schwansens and their covers, and I’m probably not taking ‘No’ for an answer.
To conclude, I’d just like to ask again for forgiveness. Not just from you, but from everybody. To the five or so bald men whose cars I jumped out in front of prior to locating yours. To the paramedics who failed to restrain me after the third bald guy kicked my ass a lot. And finally, to you, Mr. Chiklis. I took a huge risk when I put that tracker on the back of your 2014 Lexus IS250, license plate CHICL15, and while nothing can change that, I can assure you that I never intended to cause you, or anybody else, any real harm. My YouTube channel is now set to private, and, as I understand it, you’ve changed addresses. Clearly we’re both taking steps to amend what’s gone on between us. So, Michael, that’s it. That’s my apology. Take it for what it is, just as you take me for who I am. You know in your mind and in your heart that it is true when I say: “You’re my Michael Chiklis, and I’ll never let anyone replace you.”
Quin “Quigley” Asselin