I have come to the realization that I am not fated for a celebrity relationship. I would be turned away at the door due to my name, which unfortunately, is not celebrity-couple worthy. I can only watch Brangelina, Bennifer, and Tomkat from the sidelines, wishing in vain. The National Enquirer would never want to run it:

"Secretive Stieke spotted in Argentina!" (Steve Martin)
"Mieorge holed up at Lake Como hideaway!" (George Clooney)
"Jonke's restaurant  run-in with Tucker Carlson!" (Jon Stewart)
"Miekew drama with ex SJ Parker!" (Matthew Broderick)

Wait! Maybe I could date Mo Rocca, and be Momieke Rocca. Alright, Mo. That's catchy. How bout it? Let's do this thing, baby.



A postscript for Shana Ting Lipton, who suggests "Miggo": No, no, it's Mo and me, all the way. We will be seen on yachts through a telephoto lens rubbing lotion on each other's backs, and Momieke will be splashed across Page Six. There will be a pregnancy, of course, and a Momieke Baby ( an eyebrow-raising seven months later, despite previous reports) which I will shield from the prying eyes of the paparazzi by dressing it up in a little poodle disguise. I might kick one or two of them in the head and break their camera lenses for effect, or drive with the Momieke Baby precariously balanced on my SUV roof-rack, drinking vodka from its silver Tiffany's bottle (it has a calming effect). I will then flip critics the bird and run the valet down at Nobu as I peel out. Momieke. We will be the hottest couple. It's SO happening. Mo, have your people call my people. Let's set up an Ivy meeting. Maybe we should have Harvey Weinstein there, just because.

 

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