Dear Captain Papa Jeffy,
Homeless life is not a joke. All night long I’m waking up to old men coughing, women crying, and babies screaming. There are strange squeaks and gurgles emanating deep within the walls.
The first few days I spoke to nobody. But then I heard about this game the homeless play called Gotcha Ketchup. The purpose of the game is to collect as many ketchup packets as humanly possible. There’s one ketchup dealer who has gone into handfuls of restaurants to procure these packets. This ketchup dealer is the only one who sits out the game after laying them about town.
While the other homeless move fast in Gotcha Ketchup, crashing through windows feet first, leaping over boulders like they’re in some triathlon, I tiptoe. I walk with my hands out, assuring that every foot lands properly on the ground. Once confident, I then take another baby step. Somehow, I always win the game, go figure.
With Rocky, my pet lizard, stowed away in a mesh pocket in the front of my shirt, the last thing I want to do is fall forward and crush the little bastard. He means everything to me. Without him, I’m nothing.
Which is why I’m writing you, the very first male celebrity, asking for a safe haven. A place where you and Susie can become my adopted parents. Spencer and Sammy, the bros I never had.
I’ll teach y’all the rules of Gotcha Ketchup. We can have our own league. The Tweedy-Yamaguchi League. Hell, even Casey, Eugenia, Liam, Sima, and Macie can join.
While we play, Rocky can crawl around your curtains. Take naps on a stack of towels.
How fun does this sound?
Love,
Herbert Yamaguchi III
P.S. Feel free to use the title Gotcha Ketchup in a song, any way you want. No credit needed for me, future Dad. Consider this a belated birthday present.