Do you find yourself rabidly, physically attracted to Peggy Noonan?  I do, and I’m not ashamed.  Not anymore at least…  I’ve gotten over it.  I’ve sought help, and, after serious treatment, accepted it: I’m a liberal dude who is drawn to Miss Noonan in the Shakespearian sense.  I can’t explain it.  And, for therapeutic purposes, I can no longer deny it.  My Shaman tells me that it would be good to go public with all of this, a purging of sorts.  So, me being a quarter Cherokee, and never going against the wisdom of my Shaman (who will remain nameless here so as not to violate that sacred relationship), here goes:

Regardless of her politics, I have been secretly in love with Peggy Noonan since I first heard that calm Velveeta-voice on Matt Drudge’s radio show, tripping mushrooms on the way back from a Phish show in Columbus, Ohio some twelve years ago.  I haven’t been the same since.  There.  I said it.

Below is an open love-letter I wrote to her, an act that will hopefully help me get past all this.   Cheers!

My Dearest Peggy:

I write this a bit drunk and anxious, pregnantly anticipating your next appearance on one of the many Sunday talk-shows, and refusing to deny my feelings any longer.  I have a confession to make: you drive me bat-shit-crazy.

To start: Your pensive, stoic, concerned, yet reassuring face: it titillates me, nudging me gently toward an erotic world of wild responsibility and rationality I didn’t even know existed.  Your eyes incite me to an almost manic, painful questioning of my manhood, and then, when I see you blink, a simultaneous, confident urge that you need to be ravished, and that I am the only man on earth capable of the most epic of tasks.  Your dress, loose yet conservative, breaking boundaries, driving me mad, sleepless nights spent in cold sweats: my apolitical libido goes wild.

I can’t eat sometimes…  Is that what you want, Peggy?  I’ll repeat: I can’t eat, my appetite smothered by the burning question: “Why am I allowing Peggy Noonan to ruin my life?”

I drink…  Is that what you want?  Me drinking cheap Cote-du-Rhone for breakfast, listening to Serge Gainsbourg records, chain-smoking, pretending I’m in some dingy Parisian Hotel after having made love to you, longing, left only with the scent of your sweet perfume on passion-stained sheets?  Is that what you want, Peggy?  Because, if that’s what you want, then you’re a sadist, which, ironically enough, only makes me more attracted to you.

I’m a Straw-Man, Peggy.  Destroy me!  Like one of those flaccid, sacchharin-sweet arguments put forth by Donna Brazile on ABC’s “This Week.”

I know you’re thirty years older than me: I don’t care.  I know I’m not a Republican: I don’t care.  I know I never served in a White House or appeared on “Meet the Press:” I don’t care.  I know that Reagan was an over-rated President despite the spin: I don’t care.

I’m sure we can make this work if you just give it some effort.  Please give me a chance.  I promise not to let you down.

You know where to reach me,

-Saville