Like millions of Americans, I struggle with sleep-related problems ranging from trouble falling asleep to tossing and turning to waking up in the middle of the night.

For whatever reason, it takes me hours to fall asleep. Who knows what causes sleep problems? Stress? Too much caffeine? Just the way things are? Who knows?

Well, actually, I do. I know what causes my sleep problems.

Every night, I lay awake, sweating, wondering…”that guy who played the dad on ALF…is he okay? What's he doing with his life? Is he still alive, even? Oh God I fucking hope so. Oh God I can't think like that.”

If there is a God (and it's on my “to-do list” to figure out if there is one), he would make sure that the guy's okay at all times. But what if there's not a God? What if we're all alone in this world, and we have to fend for ourselves, and we haven't had an acting job since 1997 and we're living off wood chips and looseleaf paper? Oh God. Oh Fuck.

I mean, yes, sure, he was probably the worst actor on the show, but yet, he still was part of the greatest show in the history of television, therefore it's my duty to make sure he's okay. We must look after each and every actor who was a part of ALF (yes, even the cunt who played Raquel Ochmonek).

Now, I don't have to tell you how crucial the welfare of that one dude who played the dad on ALF is to the survival of the American dream. If the guy who acted as the father on ALF dies, so too, do we. So too will the American dream die. Wait, why do I keep thinking this guy is going to die? Think positive thoughts, Paul, godfuckingdamnit, positive thoughts.

Everything is going to be okay. The economy will work itself out, the actor who played the dad on ALF is going to be okay and he has a place to crash tonight, and Nancy Pelosi will wear a paper bag over her head in future State of the Union addresses.

Positive thoughts.

There's probably a foundation, like a Save the Guy Who Played The Dad on That Show ALF Foundation. There has to be, Paul, there just has to be.

Positive thoughts.

He's okay right now. He's probably sleeping on a fluffy mattress made of the same material they make clouds out of, and feasting on golden retriever meat dipped in Mountain Dew sauce.

Too positive.

He's probably begging strippers to let him do cocaine off of their butthole, and if they say yes, then he says, well, I don't have the cocaine, do you? And eating dog food out of dumpsters.

Sounds about right.