Y. Peter,
(Can I call you Y. Peter?) I’ve been waiting a long time to open up about these feelings I’m having. Now is the time for me to declare my undying love for you. Y. Peter, I love you, I want you, I need you.
I joined the Y. Peter Kang gang after I read your column for the first time. You were bitching in your usual sarcastic tone about something or other when I had my first glimpse of you in your column picture. The first question that popped into my head was, to be quite honest, “Is he wearing pants?” I think that you’re naked from the waist down, like most news anchors. That makes me feel dirty. But it makes me feel dirty in a way I like.
You try to look so hard and tough in your picture, Y. But I bet you like to cuddle just as much as the next guy. I’ll cuddle with you, YPK. We can noozle.
What does the “Y” stand for in Y. Peter Kang? I bet it stands for sexYYYYY.
Sometimes when I read your column I feel like you’re talking directly to me. Like in the column about twLF, you said, “Spank me because I’ve been a bad, bad boy.” Admit it, Y. You wrote that for me. Well, Y. Peter, I’ll spank you all right, I’ll spank you until your Y. Peter Buns are as red as cherry tomatoes.
I thought that might have been a fluke column but you started right up again in your UC Berkeleymon column. That whole column was a veiled plea begging me to dress you up in a yellow felt costume and treat you like the little Oriental toy you are.
Everybody was so hard on you after you wrote that column about obesity. They yelled at you for being insensitive, they ridiculed you for picking on chubby people, and they even called you fat. You know what? I don’t care if you’re fat. I would love to snuggle with your big flabby rolls. I want to lay my head down on your saggy man boobs and slap that chubby ass of yours. Y? Because I like you.
When you’re typing your column, do you ever touch yourself? I like to think you do because when I’m reading your column, I touch myself.
Even if you don’t ever contact me, I am perfectly content to keep living this fantasy through your columns. Keep on writing your secret messages to me and I’ll keep on dreaming of you writing your column with no pants on. Y Pedro, te quiero.
