Dear Nathaniel,

I know how much you hate it when I use your real name. You long for me to summon you with damsel-in-distress shouts of “Kool-Aid Man!” or “Hey Kool-Aid!” just like those pasty-faced tweens who hang on your every grand entrance, each time you bulldoze the center field wall, or flatten some white picket fence. I must say: as a fount of energy, you never run dry. And I can’t help but grudgingly admire how you never seem to break, you never lose even a single drop.

Do you tire of your decaying mansions, dusty attics, and all too quiet libraries? Fancy a view of the sea and the comforts of modern habitation? Do you dream of a place where friendly folks will welcome you into their homes and businesses like one of the family?

Look no further!

The pool of comedy writers at BBC Radio Scotland had no idea what was coming their way. What a great story to tell someday on Jimmy Fallon when my buddy Jimmy asks about my earliest writing credits and discovers they came from a show in Scotland. I’ve never even been there. I didn’t even need to, as I worked remotely.

Hey you! Yeah, you. The one nervously walking by me while I guard the sidewalk with my long-necked attitude. You think if you veer around me at an undignified trot, I’m not going to honk like a 1970s New York City cabdriver? Think again, my non-feathered friend.

It was bad enough when my watch would vibrate and tell me to stand. I long for the days of that simplicity. One tap would allow me to ignore it and resume watching a reality show about people who fold towels on a yacht, consume copious amounts of alcohol, and sleep with one another.