The letter came from a woman who I will call Myra. Although that is not her name, her real name is Judith.

She was not happy. And by “not happy,” I mean she compared me to the Antichrist.

She emailed a letter which began: “…I can’t believe you’re encouraging children to watch ‘SpongeBob SquarePants’ who promotes a lifestyle of blatant sexual sin… Focus on the Family and the American Family Association say SpongeBob SquarePants is dangerous to our nation’s children…”

The emailer is referring to a recent column wherein I wrote about an 8-year-old who named an injured bird after SpongeBob SquarePants. I apparently made a mistake.

So let me start by saying I am not, to my knowledge, the Antichrist. In fact, I even asked my wife about this.

“Am I the Antichrist?” I asked my wife.

She said, “Did you fold the laundry like I asked?”

“No.”

“Then yes.”

I do, however, admit to liking SpongeBob. I would not go so far as to say that I “encourage” people to watch the show. Not in the same way I would encourage people to watch, say, “Baywatch.”

But then I was raised by staunch Baptists. There were a lot of TV programs outlawed among my people.

Among them: “Three’s Company,” “Charlie’s Angels,” “Love Boat,” “Fantasy Island,” “Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles,” “The Simpsons,” “Sesame Street,” Nair commercials, paint drying, and any TV program not entitled “The Lawrence Welk Show.”

But SpongeBob was expressly forbidden. Probably because SpongeBob would always say, “tatar sauce!” Which he often uses as an expletive, instead of saying, for example, “oh, hell!”

Still, SpongeBob happens to be special to my family. I speak here of the first three seasons, which are a masterclass in the art of storytelling.

My history with SpongeBob begins in my teenage years. I had a little sister who loved SpongeBob. I would come home after work, tired and filthy—I worked full-time as a teenager after my father died. I helped Mama pay the rent.

In the evenings, my sister would watch SpongeBob. So I watched with her. I was initially resistant to the idea of a talking sea sponge. But I wanted to spend time with my sister, so I partook.

She would crawl into my lap. We laughed until our stomachs ached. Sometimes my sister would look at me, with tears of laughter, and she’d say, “I miss Daddy.”

I’d kiss her hair and say, “I know.”

Having me in her life wasn’t as good as having a real dad, but I did my best.

In 2004, the creators of SpongeBob came out with a full-length feature film. By then, I was already a married man. My kid sister was having a hard time with me not living at home. I was the only male figure she ever truly knew. And suddenly I was gone.

So one day I took my sister to see the SpongeBob movie. I cannot remember laughing so hard. Ever.

My sister and I laughed harder than anyone in the theater. At one point a moviegoer said to me, “Can you both keep it down?”

My kid sister, seized by a fit of laughter, cackled so hard she accidentally belched.

It is one of the finest memories I have.

When the movie was finished, my sister and I went out for ice cream and we talked about the movie. She said, “I miss you.”

“I know,” I said.

“Do you miss me?”

“Yes.”

“Do you still love me?”

“Until they lay me down.”

“Do you think we’ll be friends forever?”

“No,” I said. “I know we will.”

We went to see the SpongeBob movie four more times after that. Until the theater quit playing it. And each time was better than the last. So if that makes me the Antichrist, all I can say is:

Tartar sauce.