An Open Letter to Katie Holmes

I'm a big fan! I thought your work on Dawson's Creek was brilliant. And I just loved you as the doomed town tramp in that box office bomb, The Gift. And don't even get me started on your riveting performance in Wrong Turn. What? That was Eliza Dushku? Oops, my bad. Anyhoo, Katie, I'm a little worried for you. Although we've never met, I'd like to think in a twisted, delusional sort of way, that maybe you'll listen to me and take my advice. After all, I feel as if I know you.

It seems as if I cannot pick up a tabloid these days without seeing your face! That's great, Katie. What's not so great is that your face, more often than not lately, is being held in the vice-like grip of the world's most famous Scientologist, the 5'7" Mr. Tom Cruise. And that once-gorgeous face of yours is now covered with disturbing barnacle-like cold sores, not to mention a look of sheer and utter terror that seems to scream through clenched Zoom-whitened teeth, "Sweet fuck! What have I done!?" What you have done, dear Katie, is sold your soul. Batman Begins and the real Katie's kaput. I mean, did you happen to catch your "boyfriend" on Oprah? I know you're busy, but perhaps you TiVo'd it? Maybe three or four hundred concerned people each mailed you a copy on VHS? Come on, at least you saw clips of it on VH-1's Best Week Ever while doing the treadmill, right? I watched it, Katie, and here's what I saw ... The diminutive Tom Cruise pumping his tiny fist and jumping on Oprah's overstuffed couch. Honey, everyone knows you don't jump on a black woman's furniture -- it just isn't done. Mute the sound and you'd swear you were watching deleted scenes from Rosie O'Donnell's retard TV movie Riding the Bus with My Sister. My favorite part of the press conference, er, I mean interview, was when Oprah asked how you and Tom met. Suddenly Mr. Cruise started sputtering and spinning his wheels like a robot unable to access a missing memory file. DOES NOT COMPUTE. I mean, what is he going to say? "We met in the offices of my lawyers. I'll never forget it; Katie sipped a non-fat latte while I enjoyed a sparkling water. Our eyes met as we both signed the contract -- in blood, of course -- and the huge, throbbing, vein-covered alien/lizard that runs Hollywood seemed so very pleased as He crunched on a handful of newborn babies like they were cashews."

And now I hear that you two are getting married. Katie, run, don't walk! I can see the future just like Cate Blanchett in the aforementioned The Gift and it's as hideous as the sores clustered around your hungry mouth. It comes from blindly sucking at the teat of superstardom. Look what happened to the last lady who married Tom. Do you want to end up a bird-like twig with a day-glo rat's nest for hair whose current claim to fame is wiping her bony ass with pop culture classics like The Stepford Wives and Bewitched? Couldn't you just be happy with independent films and your East Village gay friends, Katie? Tom Cruise is not human, Katie. He is part cyborg, part cartoon, part demon and 100 percent annoying. That's why he freaked when those pranksters shot harmless water in his face -- he was afraid he might short circuit. "I'm melting!" The only thing more unbelievable and insincere than your relationship with him (aka TomKat, registered trademark) is La Cruise acting as if she's never had a guy squirt fluids across her famous mug -- granted, one of the prettiest faces one'll ever come across.

Please get out while you still can, Katie. And to all the other actresses out there sitting by the telephone waiting for Kevin Spacey's people to call, just say no! If your agent calls and asks if your soul is available for a few million bucks, don't even dignify the question with an answer. Just hang up. And should you feel tempted to take the bait, rent Pay It Forward. Or K-PAX. Or The Life of David Gale. It stops here. Katie, you can singlehandedly make sure that the art-directed scruff on his chiseled chin and jaw is the only beard former seminary student Tom Cruise appears with on the cover of Us Weekly magazine from now on. Please listen to me, Katie. Don't you realize the risk I'm taking? Just by typing the word "Scientology" I'm putting myself in danger! The moment those particular letters are typed in that order on any keyboard -- THEY INSTANTLY KNOW! So I am begging you, Miss Katie Holmes, please do whatever it takes to -- huh? Oh, wait a minute. There's someone at my door, Katie. Hold on, I'll be right back.

Do you have a question for Little Miss Know-It-All? Send an e-mail to NotSoNiceAdvice@aol.com.

Until next week ... stay gay, OK?

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Photos by Mario Diaz