Dear Mrs. Obama,
First, I'd just like to say that I never write these kinds of letters. Well, almost never. When I was 12 years old, I wrote a fan letter to an oh-so-dreamy Donnie Wahlberg of New Kids on the Block, and when he didn't respond I was absolutely crushed. But I now feel compelled to lift my 20-year moratorium on celebrity outreach in the hopes that you're a better pen pal than he turned out to be.
Secondly, I'd like to point out that in my capacity as a scathing provocateur with almost no journalistic integrity, I've maintained, as a general rule, that I don't use my public platform to attack presidential wives or children. You didn't run for office, after all, and no one deserves to be Chelsea Clintoned. Besides, "Saturday Night Live" has that market pretty well covered.
So, with those caveats out of the way, let me get to my well-intentioned point. Since I've left you alone, I was wondering if I might enjoy the same luxury. See, as much as I appreciate your effort to trim my waistline and keep my as of yet nonexistent children healthy, your meddling in how I — and millions of other Americans — live is starting to feel more than a little meddlesome.
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