A Love Letter to Anthony Fauci
3/30/20
Anthony Fauci
National Institutes of Health / NAIAIAIAIAID
Bethesda, MD
20892
VIA FACSIMILE
My Dearest Tony:
It’s been 3 weeks in the foxhole. How I yearn to see you again in your sexy white coat, wearing nothing but an American-flag g-string underneath — like the good old days. You always were a bit of a show off. As clear as day, I see those gams under that press briefing dais and it gets me going. Do you still have that Descovy tattoo or has it faded by now?
Has time lost all meaning?
The boys here are equally lonely, passing the days by joking about “all the honeys they’ll come within 3 feet of” when this is all over. I laugh along, but I know that time will never come — not as long as we spend billions each year without ever being prepared. I know we may win this battle, but the war will continue. And I know we’ll have you — and your sexy light blue shirt — to thank for our freedom. If I can’t have you, I don’t want to be free — so this suits me just fine.
Can we get caught off guard together soon?
Most of the guys here blame the cheeto, while others think that Xi’s to blame (it’s always a Xi, am I right?). But I just think back to those languid nights on the Potomac. Us lying beneath the bright operating room lights (because they helped you sleep), me softly stroking your petite little ears, you telling me about our ability to deploy rapid tests for any virus. But it was always the talk of amazing scientists that seemed to inflate your ardor, and nothing got you going faster than talking about how ready we were — with that $150 billion or so we’ve spent under your leadership.
Le sigh. My body shivers with anticipation, or fever. How do I spot the difference?
When I tell the boys that I am your beloved, they just laugh and don’t believe me. “Yeah, right — show me those PCR test results” — but I can’t. We never got a chance to get any, between last fall and this March, and then we were torn apart by these unforeseeable events that we could not foresee. Oh, cruel fate.
To remember the good times we had, I keep a photo of you pinned to my locker. Some of the other guys prefer a shirtless Mikey P dancing in a Miami nightclub, while the more unusual boys have an Alex Jones supplement and a QAnon tour poster to cuddle up to.
I’d be lying if I didn’t tell you that lots of other guys also have you up on their savior boards, having only recently torn down Robert Mueller’s pic. It gives them some comfort to see your Rose Garden body in all its magnificence, so I don’t have the heart to tell them that you’re mine and they’re likely to be disappointed if they expect you to be the adult in the room. I want to keep morale up, so I’m not going to run around tearing you off the wall, shouting about misplaced expectations or such. I know you’ve got the experience — and the charm — to seem like you’re saving the world.
Will we see each other again? Perhaps next Easter?
How I long to hold you just one more time and do the most basic of things together: like shop at Whole Foods or eat low calorie frozen yogurt. How many Wuhan Bats would I give just to walk the aisles of a Lululemon together, getting outfits we need to get into shape, and then never going on that marathon run we always talked about? The simple pleasures are what you miss the most in a war.
How much longer can I keep our Faucian bargain?
I know, you told me that if I stayed true, we’d be reunited in May, July or by mid 2021. Time is a cruel mistress, and I fear that I won’t be as attractive — or even able to walk — by the time I can see you next. Promise me that when the vaccine finally comes it will cure my ennui before the next time this happens. You always said there’d be a next time, and I intend to hold this body against you.
Now, I must run my love — I’ve got a couple of zoom calls with friends getting drunk and about a dozen COVID-preparedness emails from local merchants to read before I bake myself into a diabetic coma. You’d really get a kick out of my hot cross buns. They’re nearly perfect, and chock full of naughty, naughty raisins. I’ll save some for our cheat day.
Until next time we see each other, maybe broadcast live or in a meme where you’ve duct taped someone’s mouth shut. Stay strong my love. I hear tell you are our only hope, and even though I know it’s not true, I still long for the day we are reunited.
Au Revoir, my dearest Tony.
XOXOXO
PS — I enclosed a photo of something to keep your spirits up.
