For most of us, dreams are an opportunity to drive a train, pet an exotic animal, or even eat a large sandwich. But for Freddy Krueger, dreams are a playground for his favorite game. It’s a little something called “doing murder,” and let’s just say he doesn’t often lose.

It’s ironic that Freddy Krueger’s initials are FK because the guy should be Fucking Kancelled. On top of killing dozens of people and just having an all-around rotten attitude, he also called me a Polack in a dream once. Enough is enough. It’s time we punish Freddy for his numerous wrongdoings with swift and effective measures. I’m speaking, of course, of taking away his hat.

Hats are for well-behaved boys who follow the rules. Few would argue that Freddy fits this description. He’s a homicidal psychopath unwilling to accept there are certain terms for Eastern Europeans that are outdated. By taking away the third or fourth most recognizable thing about him, we would be sending Freddy the message, “Murder is wrong. Knock it off.”

There’s no denying that Freddy is addicted to swag almost as much as he is to bloodshed. If looks could kill, he wouldn’t need his knife glove because the guy is a walking vision of elegance. What he does need, however, is to answer for his crimes, not least of which are the hundreds of flirtatious texts in my wife’s phone from “Fred K.” Most agree that Freddy died after being burned alive in his boiler room, but I’ve long suspected that he actually was immolated after making too many people’s dreams hot and steamy by appearing in them. Now he’s up to his most heinous act yet: seducing my wife.

Time is therefore of the essence. Without the confidence that Freddy’s floppy fedora brings him, he wouldn’t be able to murder. He’d be filled with self-doubt and all that frustration is sure to impact his performance in the boudoir, leaving him incapable of sexually fulfilling my wife. I can’t say with certainty that it will render him impotent, but it’s the best chance we’ve got.

Though we lack conclusive evidence as to whether or not Freddy Krueger follows Frosty the Snowman rules when it comes to removing his hat, we owe it to ourselves to try. We don’t know if it will transform him into a lifeless effigy, but what we do know is that exposing his bald head will make me look better in comparison (I’m also bald, but less so). Seeing his hairless scalp may be exactly what we need to get my son to stop referring to Fred K as “dad.”

If the operation is successful, the question then becomes, who is going to assume ownership of Freddy’s hat? After much deliberation, I’ve decided to volunteer my services. I understand the risks. It may give me Freddy’s thoughts. It may turn me into Freddy. It may even reignite the sexual spark in my marriage that has been dormant for nearly a decade. We have no idea, but I’m willing to roll the dice for the good of humanity.

I don’t know why Freddy is targeting me specifically. The only thing I can think of is I stole all of his one-liners and passed them off as my own jokes in an ultimately failed attempt to kickstart my stand-up comedy career. I was standing on stage and shouting things like, “Welcome to prime time, bitch!” and no matter how many times I asked the audience to pretend that I had just murdered someone by smashing their head through a television, nobody laughed. I guess it’s only funny if someone filled with anti-Polish prejudices is saying it. And by the way, just because my name has 17 consonants and only 1 vowel in it does not give Freddy the right to call me a “pierogi muncher.” We must send the message that this behavior will not be tolerated. The only way to do so is by taking away his hat.

EDIT: This is a bit awkward, but the private investigator I hired to follow my wife around just got back to me with some great news. The Fred K who is fucking my wife isn’t Freddy Krueger, but my wife’s personal trainer who coincidentally has the same initials! Freddy is completely innocent. Of cuckolding me, that is. He’s most certainly guilty of over forty counts of first-degree murder. At any rate, that’s got nothing to do with me, so let the man keep his hat.