If Frank Oz came up to you and was like “Hey, let me shove my hand up your ass and we can pretend you’re a Muppet,” wouldn’t you say yes? I mean you’d be freaked out and disturbed but come on! That’s the hand that controlled Yoda and Fozzie and so many other characters from our collective youths. Wouldn’t it be an honor to have Frank Oz’s hand right up there? I think it would be. I’m not suggesting it’d be pleasant, or anything, just that it would be an honor of some sort.

And maybe that’s just me. It probably is and I’m going to come off a bit strange here, but I’m used to that. It isn’t like I generally want people’s hands up my ass, that’s not a thing with me. I’m just saying. Frank Oz. It’s like… I don’t know what it’s like. I reached for some analogy, some metaphor there that would help this all make sense and I came back empty.

Really though, aren’t there some celebrities you would let do strange things to you, out of respect for how they shaped you? Maybe? If Mr. T and I met in an airport and he demanded I trank him, otherwise he wasn’t getting on no foo’ plane, I would trank him, out of love and understanding. See that’s what I’m really saying. I think. So back to OZ.

Oh, the Wonderful Hand of Oz. I don’t believe I just said that. Ow, I’m sorry for that one. It was beneath me but I went for it anyway. Back on target! Frank Oz. I don’t even imagine he likes shoving his hand up people’s asses. He has to do it all day for work, you know? He doesn’t come home and get off that way. Naw, that doesn’t make sense.

So, I suppose the chances of him randomly asking to put his hand up your ass is slim. But then again, maybe he senses you’re a huge Muppet fan. He wants to give you something more than an autograph, something you can tell your kids about. And there we are.

There we are.

Of course, you have to then wonder, would he sign your ass? Would you get that tattooed on, if he did? Would you, also, start collecting Muppet puppeteers signatures (and interior handshakes)?

Remember, it’d be an honor. You could start a club. “Hey, you got a Dave Goelz? Sweet! I just got a Michael Frith!” Both of you, trousers dropped, posteriors in the air toward each other. Of course, God help whomever decided to get Jerry Nelson. Sweetums was full body, yo. And I don’t know that a full Nelson (as it would have to be called) would fit inside you.

But hey, live the dream.