“So, Tony, my daughter tells me you met when you clamored out of a sewer grate in the park where she was eating lunch, fired a pistol three times into the sewer, then walked over to her and said, ‘Monk is real. All of it.’”

“So, Tony, my daughter tells me that she was really charmed when you took out a bag of venison, offered her some, and said, ‘Monk’s venison jerky is the only food in the world that won’t make you sick.’”

“Monk is my least favorite show on television.”

“Beat it, Shalhoub. We don’t tolerate character-actor bullshit in this household.”

I’d ask him if he has any hobbies that don’t involve shooting career-defining USA dramedies.

I’d just give him the picture of my daughter. If my little girl ends up marrying Shalhoub, that Monk money is coming my way, and I’ll be set for life.

I’d show him a picture of her and her ex-boyfriend, who was a handsome, polite kid and not an aging actor who applied bronzer to half his face and smells unmistakably of cod.

I’d point out to him that he parked his car in the neighbor’s koi pond, and they really hate it when people do that, so he should get the hell out of my house and deal with that.

I’d play the one where Monk’s doctor is murdered and he has to solve it. Pretty by-the-numbers Monk, but don’t want to get too flashy here.

I’d play the custom episode of Monk that I filmed where my daughter plays Monk and solves a crime at the beach. At one point, she looks directly into the camera and says, “I am portraying my future husband.”

I’d play the finale and then tell Tony Shalhoub that there’s a rumor that another season is being filmed, today, 500 miles away, and that he only has a few hours to get there or Tony’s biggest rival, Idris Elba, will be cast as Monk.

I’d turn on the pilot and then hit the TV with a baseball bat as soon as Monk appears on screen. Then I’d say, “Now imagine if you had walked in front of the TV at the exact time I did that.”

He’s driving, so I’d make him a virgin daiquiri.

I’d loosen things up a bit and get Tony going with a Manhattan, served on a coaster that I made that depicts Shalboub and my daughter getting married.

I’d grind up some of Shalhoub’s venison jerky with some horseradish and dump it in my bushes to see if that will get to leave my house.

I’d straight-up drug Tony Shalhoub. No jury would convict me. Anyone would do the same.

I’d tell him to come inside and offer him the damp sleeping bag that Shalhoub gave me earlier.

I’d tell him to come inside, but I’d warn him that my daughter is a prize for Tony Shalhoub and Tony Shalhoub only. I am not going to deal with a lifetime of Tucci in-laws crawling around my house, bragging about how incurable their skin diseases are.

I’d welcome him with open arms. Anyone who isn’t David Schwimmer is welcome in my home.

I’d kick a sword across the floor to him, motion my head toward Tony Shalhoub, and tell Tucci, “You know what must be done.”

I tell him that I’m glad that he intends to practice safe sex, and that what matters to me is that he and my daughter make smart decisions and respect each other.

I’d pick up the condoms and tell him that he can only have them back when I get that Shalhoub grandchild I deserve.

I tell him that his voice ruined Cars 2.

I tell him that the Cheesecake Factory card will only cover one entrée and I hope that he leaves.