Dear Edwin E. Aldrin,
As I write this letter, the framed picture of you walking on the moon that hangs above my desk has lost a touch of its majesty. Not because the so-called permanent marker you use to autograph is fading, but because I just learned you are to be a contestant on Dancing with the Stars.
Why Buzz? I never thought I'd say this but, what were you thinking? You told "Zap2it" (whatever the fuck that is) that you felt "forced to go out and sing for your supper" and that "it's a shame somebody who has gone to the moon has to go out and do that." You're god damned right it's a shame, Buzz. Dancing with the Stars? You danced with the actual stars. You walked on the mother-fucking moon. What's your next move? Denny's spokesman?
Look who you're up against. Kate Gosselin? Pam Anderson? They're not fit to lick the lunar-dust off your moonboots, though Pam probably would if you asked. I'll tell you this Buzz, I'm actually going to watch this stupid show because of you and you better win that bitch. Your 80-year-old bad-asstronaut body better be taking small steps and giant leaps all over the place. Otherwise you're letting me down, you're letting America down, and you're letting Cookie Monster down.
Dare I hope that your acquiescence to reality TV is rooted more in keeping a younger generation mindful of the U.S. Space Program than promoting your books? Probably not. Please reconsider Buzz, for me and for John Kennedy. If you're this hard up for cash set up a paypal donation site or sell some of the moonrocks you smuggled back.