Dear Shakira,

I hate to be the one to tell you this, but it’s true. I’ll admit, I was skeptical from the start when you claimed that your hips “don’t lie.” But, I gave you the benefit of the doubt, because I didn’t think you were like all the rest of those stuck-up American starlets with their uppity bodyguards and pepper spray. However, that was before today, when I received this letter talking about “equitable remedy” and “ex parte,” which, from what I understand, means I have to stop sending you those scrumptious oatmeal raisin cookies along with the vials of my valuable bone marrow your hips were so intent on having. Well, let me just tell you that I feel like a real ass right now, as I’m sure that your hips have been telling me outright lies for weeks, maybe even months.

“Come up on stage,” wiggled your dissembling hips, rotating, “You’ll love it up here.” Do you remember that? It was I guess around April. Well, when I sauntered up to the stage, accidentally rhino-charging those two security guards, I felt that we, or at least your hips and I, had made a real connection. But the second I managed to crawl up there, you and your hips run away and jump into a van, leaving me at the mercy of those security guard troglodytes who took great relish in pushing my nose through the back of my face. What am I supposed to believe, Shakira? Either get those hips to start speaking your language (Spanglish, am I correcto?), or stop deluding yourself into thinking they are the upstanding hips that they’re not. I’ll be honest, I’m more than a little inclined to sue the pants off your hips for leading me up there on stage that night. You know, even without a trial, these misunderstandings cost money.

“I’m not sure exactly where Shakira and I live, but I’m pretty certain we’re from Bogotá,” gyrated your ilia (the largest section of the hip bone, the ilium offers a support nexus for muscles and internal organs, and is, in your case, a remorseless agent of deception and skullduggery) after I asked where I might find you two. Remember? That’s right — while you and your hips were nice and warm inside on TRL with Carson Daly, I was freezing my gonads off downtown in front of a Radio Shack, screaming. You may not have heard me, but your hips were certainly quick to chime in. Well, naturally, I boarded a flight the next week to your fair capital in an effort to cultivate our relationship. Snake eyes, Shakira! No thanks to your full-of-crap hips, I found out that you’re not from Bogotá–as your hips would claim–you’re from Barranquilla, and even more disturbing, you live in the Bahamas! You know who told me that? It wasn’t your hips, that’s for sure. No, it was a bunch of FARC guerrillas who took me in, fed me, then shaved my testicles after I made a guerrilla/gorilla joke to break the ice.

Does this shameless deception bother you at all? (Shakira, I urge you not to show this epistle to your hips, as I’m certain they will just wiggle and bounce around in a fit of mendacity, for which I will no doubt fall — hook, line and pelvis). You know, I hope you don’t pay mind to your hips too often; whatever they’re telling you, it’s probably all lies. Did they tell you that was my kidney you got in the mail? Absolutely false (unless you need it some day due to renal failure — then maybe it was mine). I imagine your hips have been deceiving you for ages, and it makes me angry to think they might go around spreading lies about me. But they do mention me, don’t they?

Look, Shakira. Perhaps this is all one big misunderstanding. It may be the case that your hips are just jealous because they fear I’m becoming attracted to you, and you to me. Maybe it’s true. People (and often their component parts) will do the most sinister things to keep true romance at bay. It is my sincere hope that your hips will stop these childish antics and let us get to know one another as more than partial beings, but as complete, drunk and eventually nude individuals who share a great love of each other. Of course, I’ve been burned before by those hips, so before I commit to anything, you’ve got to “let me in,” okay?

And that means letting me in your heart and your security gate this time.

Cautiously,

Tyler Smith

P.S. How reliable are your elbows? I’m getting some pretty good vibes from them, but if they’re anything like your hips, then just forget it.