Just look at yourself. Take a good, long, honest look. What do you see? Do you see a sexy, rebellious accessory smack-dab in the middle of an A-List Hollywood superstar's awe-inspiring revitalization? Neither do I. I see a grotesque reminder of the Peter Pan Complex, protruding from the saggy earlobe of a 65-year-old man. You've had a good run but it's time to move on to greener pastures. It is a well-established fact that, along with sports cars and young women, you're the hallmark of the male midlife crisis. Well answer me this: how do you expect to signify anyone's midlife crisis when you're pinned to the ear of a man who stopped standing up to piss nearly a decade ago? Sixty-five! He's old enough to be John McCain's son, for God's sake! Don't you want more from your life?
I know, I know. We've had this discussion before. I remember it well. The question is, do you? Let me refresh your memory. Five years ago, I casually mentioned that you might consider reassessing your role in Ford's pathetic charade and find a new ear to cling to. My suggestion: Brad Pitt. You fumed, insisting that while Ford may well, at some point, be regarded as a has-been (even then, your delusion was severe, as old Harry had achieved has-been status some five years prior, with the release of Six Days, Seven Nights), Pitt would always be a never-was. I suppose the fact that Pitt was already the industry's most famous and bankable leading man had somehow eluded you, or maybe you and Harrison were too busy watching Matlock reruns and catching the Early Bird Special at Denny's to know much about who was who in Hollywood at the time.
Fast-forward five years: Pitt has nearly achieved national treasure status while you and your beloved Indy are gallivanting around some ancient alien tomb in search of your lost relevance. Quick question for you: where would you rather be right now, nestled snugly amid Angelina Jolie's ample bosom or pressed firmly against one of Calista Flockhart's pallid, anorexic thighs? Exactly.
So, maybe this time around, you'll take my advice. I'm just going to throw a name out there for you to mull over: James McAvoy. Hear me out. He's 29, has just thrown his hat into the action hero ring with Wanted (co-starring none other than the lovely Ms. Jolie), and is slated to star as Bilbo Baggins in The Hobbit, which will surely catapult him to mega-stardom. It's the perfect storm. You'll catch him on the upswing and be there to comfort him as he slowly comes to grips with the fact that he peaked well before his 35th birthday. After that sobering realization sets in, there's no limit to the amount of embarrassingly transparent tomfoolery you and McAvoy might perpetrate in an ill-fated attempt to recapture his fleeting youth and fame. Maybe you'll bed a newly-divorced Scarlett Johansson (sorry, Ryan Reynolds, you knew it was coming)! Or drive a convertible Rolls Royce into a man-made lake of fire! Or cook up a solution of yak's blood and baking soda and inject it directly into your eyeball! Hey, midlife crises aren't always fun. That's the risk you run, my friend. But it's a risk worth taking.
Heed my words, you stubborn sonofabitch, or before you know it, you and Harrison will be enjoying the "good life" on the set of the network comedy My Incontinent Dad.
You've been warned. Again. Now get out while you still can.
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