Dear DJ Lance

Dear DJ Lance,

I love you.

The minute I saw you on my television, clad in a skintight orange bodysuit meant to mimic a tuxedo, I knew you were special. It’s as if you looked at your closet and said, “I want to look formal, but I also want to show every crevice of my body to the point where parents feel slightly uncomfortable… but they don’t want to turn off the television.”

You stood there in your thick glasses, the mark of an intellectual. Because you had a new way of thinking. And in that moment, I desired nothing more than to be a part of your colorful, incredibly overstimulating (like, really overstimulating, Jesus Christ, were the writers on coke or something) world.

You exclaimed, “Hi! I’m DJ Lance!” And you may have been talking to the youth of America, but it felt as if you were talking right to me.

I was but a child then. But I’m a woman now. And I, a fully grown adult, want you to whisper the same sweet phrase, “Hi! I’m DJ Lance!” into my ear as we embrace in my queen size bed. I promise the sheets are even softer than your fluffy hat.

I want you to control me the way you control your friends Muno, Brobee, Foofa, Toodee, and Plex in their little… diorama? I don’t know. That aspect of the show always confused me.

Anyway.

You may sing “Don’t Bite Your Friends,” but goddamnit, you’re welcome to bite me. Because we’re not friends. We’re more than friends. I want you to create a “Party In My Tummy.” Give me one night, and I’ll have you screaming “Yo Gabba Gabba!”

Some believe the messiah already came. Some believe it is yet to come. But I believe the messiah arrived in 2007: the year “Yo Gabba Gabba” was first broadcast on Nick Junior.

Your show may have ended in 2015, but our story can last a lifetime.

Sincerely,

Rebecca Jaffe