Dear Robert Swan Mueller III,

It’s 2:37 A.M. and, yet again, I lie awake following a lonely podcast binge, fantasizing about your ongoing investigation into Russian interference in the 2016 election. The world is a cold, dark place. Yet, just when I think that nothing matters anymore, I Google your latest indictment and the dying embers in my heart begin to stir, revived by your inventive legal maneuvering.

Robert Mueller, may I call you Swan? Some say you look like a different species of bird, noting your uncanny resemblance to Sam Eagle, who was always my favorite Muppet. But to me, you are more of a swan, majestically gliding through a sea of documents, neck outstretched as your legs paddle wildly underwater, unseen and unheard.

Beautiful Swan, I have to admit that back in the day, if a soothsayer foretold that I’d fall for the consummate G-man, I would have poured bong water on their head and vomited on their loafers. Those were different times and, admittedly, I was a fool. In this moment of rampant debauchery and freeloading, your patrician uprightness, by contrast, seems almost radical. I find myself increasingly enchanted by your slightly bulbous nose, your caterpillar eyebrows, your perfectly parted silver hair—underscoring my long-held belief that real men don’t use Just for Men—and, most of all, your pronounced jawline. When I read that former attorney general John Ashcroft used to call you “Square-Jaw McGraw”, I thought: yes, that’s my Swan.

My sweet, square Swan, the first (and last) time you addressed me was about a year and a half ago. You had given a one-sentence written statement to the media following your appointment as special counsel in the wake of that wily showboater James Comey’s firing. You kept it simple, writing, “I accept this responsibility and will discharge it to the best of my ability.” Your brevity left me hungry for more.

Shortly thereafter, my therapist (who is also in love with you, by the way) pointed me to a YouTube video of the commencement address you delivered at your granddaughter’s high school. The timing must have been awkward for you, just days after you were tasked with upholding our democracy, but you are not the type of man to back out of a family commitment. You spoke for 15 minutes about four characteristics—service, integrity, patience, and humility—that have guided your life in public service. I couldn’t help but notice how conspicuously absent these traits were in the persona of your adversary, referred to herein only as Individual 1. (Swan, one of the things I love most is that I can speak legal to you.)

While Individual 1’s father was busy bribing a Queens podiatrist (allegedly, wink wink) so that his son could dodge the draft, you were in Vietnam, serving as a Marine infantry platoon commander for which you earned a Purple Heart, a Bronze Star, and several other awards I had never even heard of until I read your biography. Individual 1 has stated that avoiding S.T.D.s while tomcatting around in the 1990s was his “personal Vietnam,” but your personal Vietnam was actually Vietnam. As Individual 1 whines on Twitter that your investigation is a “witch hunt” and a waste of taxpayer money, we have learned that yours might actually be a cash-flow-positive endeavor, based on the value of the seized assets alone.

Let’s not kid ourselves: it’s not just what you do, my Swan, but what you are wearing while doing it. And, hot damn, your style is elegance personified. While that blowhard Michael Avenatti bobs and weaves in his custom Tom Ford, and Individual 1 trips over his billowing pant legs, you stick to your St. Paul’s prep-school roots with a revolving assortment of Brooks Brothers ensembles, perfectly starched white shirts, buttoned at the collar and always paired with a subtle tie. The pièce de résistance: your $50 Casio sport watch.