Half-empty bottles of Southern Comfort scattered throughout a sparsely furnished suburban living room. The smell of week-old vomit lingers in the stale air. A woman, passed out in her own filth, is sprawled in the middle of the room, erupting into violent convulsions at an hourly rate. Her shaking hand reaches to turn on the television, and a handsome young black boy appears on the screen. Her life is forever changed.

That passed-out woman was me, 14 years ago. My life had fallen apart. All I had was alcohol and head lice. It was that day, that day I first laid eyes on your pudgy, boyish face, that I decided to get myself back on track. I owe it all to you. Yes, things were difficult, but I knew that you'd be there for me, every Saturday at 8 PM. You got me through it all. I owe my life to you, Mr. Coleman.

When Diff'rent Strokes went off the air, I was devastated. By then I had conquered my addiction to alcohol and had moved to a penthouse in New York City and adopted two scampish boys from the ghetto. But life was not the same without you. The only thing that kept me going was the hope that you would have a new show, a show to bring laughter into the hearts of millions and inspire other alcoholic crackwhores like me to go straight. Alas, there was no show. And, until the highly disappointing SFW in 1995, there were no new movies either. You've abandoned me, Gary. Why?

The loss of Diff'rent Strokes left a hole in my heart that will never be repaired. I tried, oh god, I tried. I've watched every one of Todd Bridges' talk show appearances, I've rented every one of Dana Plato's porno movies, and while the porno movies are enjoyable, they don't compare to you, Todd, and Dana working together, on Diff'rent Strokes. I yearn to see your sweet face again, to hear your joyful laugh just once more. Every night, I cry myself to sleep while thinking about you.

You've done so much good, just by coming into our living rooms every week and sharing your life with us. America needs and loves you. I don't wonder why America is going to hell in a handbasket. I know why. It's because there's a hole in America's collective heart. In the hole's place used to be a little boy named Gary. We admired him for overcoming kidney disease and we cherished the happiness he brought us through his television show and numerous made-for-tv movies. But he is gone now. Where is he? I do not know.

I implore you, on behalf of the United States of America and God, to return to television. With your help, the world can be a place of peace and harmony once again. We love you.