Dearest Hawkeye,

Oh, would that I could be a nurse at the 4077th Mobile Army Surgical Hospital. How do the rest manage to roll their eyes at you and walk away? How do they just giggle and turn to their friends, unimpressed? I couldn’t possibly! One look my way and I’d be ready to get that whitefish in New Jersey with you, the meal you dreamt of.

You handsome prankster. Schemer of schemers. The elaborate tricks and plots you pulled off with your friends were legendary. Occasionally, even for the greater good. Okay, a lot more than occasionally, but it’s more fun when it’s for a gin drink or a day off.

You’re the alpha dog of the disenfranchised. Leader of the scofflaw pack. You’re not the only wacky one there at the 4077, but where would Trapper be without you? Who would Klinger turn to? And little Radar?

I could watch you do that Marx Brothers routine forever and ever. You’re the perfect Groucho, Jr. somehow. You stalk around with wit and just the slightest creepiness radiating from you.

Netflix gave you to me and recently took you away, cruelly, with little warning. But I am not too distraught for I know that I will find you again, on reruns, on the internet, in my dreams. We will be reunited. It won’t be long at all.

Father of my crushes. My god of maudlin. Approved, with pleasure, by the primal part of me.

Love,

Dollissa, All Riled Up