Jay: It's pretty clear to me that you aren't being honest with your ...obsessions... when you write your fan mail, otherwise why would Amy and I continue to receive your cease and desist letters in our mailboxes? Get with the program, Jay - he's just not into you. ~ETS



Dear Jay:

According to the many restraining orders I've lodged against you over the length of our indirect acquaintance, I see that today is your birthday. My lawyers have advised against this e-mail contact but, in light of my current "new leaf" status, I'm choosing to take this opportunity to explain a few things to you in the hopes that you fall over from shock, take a knock to the head, and miraculously come to realize that I'm not a god and you don't need to worship me. (At least not quite as much as you do now.)

First though, please know that I do recognize you as a long-standing and immensely loyal fan, all the way from my days as Blackie Parrish through those as Lance Stargrove, from Jake Phillips to Tony Gates, and I do thank you for your continued support. I imagine that you are the only man on the face of the planet who not only considers his Uncle Jesse "action figure" to have been a sound investment, you actually tell people about it. Proudly. (I would suggest, however, that you take it down off the mantle when you have friends over or, at the very least, turn the spotlights off for the length of their stay. House-guests should be your priority, Jay, not your mulleted obsessions from the 80s.) That being said, I'm fairly certain that no one has any doubts about your fandom at all. How could they?

However, I must stress that I do have a steady job now. It's a good one, too. In fact, it's an awesome job that doesn't show any signs of going away, not now, not ever, so there's no need to continue mourning the loss of my career. My career isn't dead, Jay; it's both alive and kicking, so please quit sending condolence cards to my mother. You're freaking her out, and I'm getting tired of having to drop whatever I'm doing to rush over to her house as soon as the mailman arrives in order to convince her that I really am me, I am alive and that the voice on the other end of the phone line isn't some evil villain impersonating me after having done away with her bouncing baby boy. (How did you get her address, anyway?)

I am going to continue declining your requests for a sample of my chest hair. I thought it flattering at one point; you wouldn't be the first man to have asked and I'd drawn certain...assumptions based upon your requests, but you've consistently insisted that you are not gay, which scares me more than anything else, Jay. It's one thing to imagine you as a lonely, friendless little man sitting in his rocking chair sewing together throw pillows filled with my chest hair, but as you've vetoed that idea so vehemently I can only imagine one other reason for your continued requests: hoodoo. I'm not stupid, Jay - I've seen "The Skeleton Key," and there's no way you're getting your hands on any of my DNA, so stop asking already! (If, however, you are making little chest hair sachets for resale to other rabid "ER" fans, please have your lawyer contact mine so that we can come to an amicable arrangement regarding my percentage of the gross sales.)

I do have to refute one of your most blatant misconceptions, though: I once wore a USC sweatshirt in a random photo published in a Tiger Beat magazine while in the throes of the 80s, but wearing a sweatshirt does not mean that I am an alumni, nor does it mean that I am a "Trojan" spokesperson. I do not hold stock in the company either and, if I did, I still wouldn't send you free samples. (Although perhaps I should become a stockholder and get some samples for myself; have you seen how hot the Olsen twins have turned out? "Come to Uncle Jesse, babies...." Yeah.)

In closing, Jay, my birthday wish for you is that you find something else in life with which to occupy your time, something that doesn't involve spending your every waking moment concerned about what I eat for breakfast or how I get my eyebrows to do that incredibly handsome Greek furrow thing. In fact, Dave Coulier and I have been talking about you, and we've decided that perhaps you might be interested in transferring your attentions to Bob Saget. He seems to be the only member of the "Full House" family whose fan club you don't run, and he tells one heck of a twisted version of "The Aristocrats," so he'd definitely be worth your time! Think about it. (Also: Dave would like it very much if you'd quit referring to him as "Big Daddy Dave." It creeps him out.) (Come to think about it, it creeps me out too, so stop already!)

Happy birthday Jay, and please quit calling me.

Cheers!
John Stamos