Dear Mr. Rogers,
You don’t know me, but I know you. In fact, I feel that we share a certain uncomfortable intimacy, like coworkers who see each other at work the day after drunkenly making out at a party. You know what I mean.
When I was a kid, probably pre-school age or earlier, my mom used to make me PB&J (cut into four squares, or even triangles on a really good day), and send me downstairs to watch the lunchtime kids’ shows on PBS. Sesame Street was on first, followed by your show. Now, I’m not trying to make accusations or anything, because I’m honestly just as confused as you probably are. However, I very distinctly remember getting bare-ass naked and hiding behind the couch. And not just once, Fred. This happened on more than one occasion. I’m sure of it.
I don’t know why I did that, and I wish I did. Perhaps I was in an altered state. Perhaps this occurred following a particularly jarring episode of Sesame Street, like the one brought to me by the letter ‘K’, in which the kite flew away with the kitten, causing me to sob uncontrollably. I can’t say for sure. I think we could both use some therapy, Fred. Please contact me and we can work this out.