Dear Albert Roker,
Let me begin by stating that you are a national treasure and I want to cherish you. You dance through my thoughts day and night, consistently revving the engine of my psyche. That pair of slutty secretary glasses you wear makes me think of you and me during a late night at the office where work and inhibitions take a backseat to passion. That non-regional dialect of yours casts mystery and intrigue on your past; making me think that your history needs protecting, and that drives the part of me that loves bad boys absolutely wild. I think of you as my big chocolate panther, and I want you to stalk me, chase me, and eventually, pounce on me.
Lady Gaga may have a poker face, but only Justin Gawel has an “Al Roker Face”. To be frank, it is basically a mixture of wonder and ecstasy. This expression sneaks its way across my face any time I watch you on the Today Show, read any bit of your magnetic novel, or anytime I hear the phrase, “That’s what’s going around the country.” Once, when watching Good Burger, the “Al Roker Face” made a brief cameo, but then I realized I was watching that fat fuck Keenan Thompson on screen. A Roker Face denied; I spent the rest of my day broken-hearted, fearing that you somehow knew I confused you with a portly All-That alum.
The word fan does not do justice to my obsession with you, Albert. My entire studio apartment is dedicated to your life. Every picture of you that’s has ever been in print is posted there. My Roker costume is there (past four Halloweens and counting!) and a jar for my sweets, dubbed with a signature catch phrase of yours (Man Candy!). I even have a homemade cardboard cutout of you that I position over my bed. Now, whenever night terrors of cobras and Nazis wake me up in the middle of the night, I can shoot one glance to your smiling face and immediately I feel the security that comes with being protected by the watchful eye of Roker. I’ve even positioned my bed and the cutout so that every year on your birthday the sun shines through the window and hits the cutout right in the eye, making it twinkle just as my alarm clock goes off. However, last year it was overcast during the morning of August 20th and it did not work. That day I ended up spending over nine hours on the phone with the suicide hotline.
Picture this: it’s the Macy’s Parade on Thanksgiving. A simpleton from the Midwest, me, is making his maiden voyage to the Big Apple. Overwhelmed by the amount of people, I seek refuge with my favorite TV personality, as I literally could not name anyone else living in New York City. A more than accommodating Roker brings me in and is more than delighted to spend his Thanksgiving dinner with this chuckle-head from Michigan. A complementary all-you-can-listen buffet from Roker would have me swooning with delight; the Roke’s cleverly crafted witticism would have my heart all a flutter. Then, before I can say, “more mashed potatoes, please” the big bear has got his paw in my honey pot and I don’t know where my body stops and his begins anymore. Daybreaks, he leans over to me and delicately massages my shoulder. My fingers are trembling now, as I can’t wait another second for his advances. Then, right before he plunders my goodies, he whispers softly into my ear, “Let’s see what’s happening in your neck of the woods.” Happy Fantasy Thanksgiving, Justin.
I hope I’m not being too forward, Al. Can I call you Al now? I feel like we’ve become so much closer even after just writing this letter.
Thinking Of You,
Justin P. Gawel