Congratulations, George.
George Clooney with his new bride, Amal Alamuddin.Photo: AP
And by that I mean: condolences. Condolences for the end of your single life. But condolences to all of us, too, all of us who wish we were you. Because of you, bachelorhood is deader than your ice-hockey scene with Mr. Freeze in "Batman & Robin."
On screen, on red carpets, in your Italian villa, you gave a credible approximation of being a hep new Sinatra. In the "Ocean's" movies, you seemed like a guy who was having fun. You were gettin' paid and gettin' . . . companionship.
Lots of it, in a bounteous cornucopia. You dated every cocktail waitress, model and lady WWE wrestler from here to Zanzibar. You sat in the front row of the fashion shows looking as pleased as a dog at the butcher shop, and it wasn't because you were interested in hemline trends. When you paused on the sidewalk, women lined up not to ask for your autograph but to give you their phone numbers. At no point did you allow yourself to get tied down.
Matt Damon, George Clooney and Brad Pitt at the screening of "Ocean's Thirteen."Photo: Splash News
Money rained down on you. You goofed around in Vegas with Pacino and Brad Pitt and Julia Roberts and called it work. George, speaking for every straight man on the planet, you were living our dream. You were like something out of Hugh Hefner's imagination, except with occasional pauses to win Oscars and talk about Darfur. Apart from that blunder with the nipples-first Batsuit, the only unpleasant thing that ever happened to you was you having to hang around with Matt Damon.
Now you've thrown it all away. Derek Jeter is talking about following suit and settling down instead of continuing to do things the easy, no-strings-attached way — sending his lady friends home with autographed baseballs after an evening's sport. Help us, Obi-Wan DiCaprio: You're our only hope.
Derek Jeter and model girlfriend, Hannah DavisPhoto: Charles Wenzelberg
I know you're a humanitarian, George, so spare a thought for the little people. Imagine the damage you've done to Todd in accounting. If you allowed yourself to be fitted for a ball and chain, what chance does he have? Next time Todd goes for an Orange Julius, he's going to turn around and see his girlfriend tapping her foot angrily and angling her head at Zales. "Todd, George Freakin' Clooney committed! Why can't you?"
Poor, poor Todd. All he wanted was a little nooky to unwind after the manly rigors of the evening shift on "Call of Duty," but thanks to you, in six months he's going to be blowing his life savings on lilac arrangements and lobster thermidor, and two years after that he'll be ruled by the iron dictates of mortgages, babies and Real Simple magazine. Bye-bye, "Call of Duty." Bye-bye, nooky. Bye-bye, Todd's personality.
George, dudes like to think of you as you were in "Gravity": Drifting jauntily in space, cracking jokes and untethered to any woman. We know you didn't really die when you went your own way. You just needed to make up some excuse so you could go hook up with a hottie at a cocktail bar on Mars.
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