And a Homecoming Queen

So, I am heading out to LA in a couple of weeks to, you know, take the world by storm with my unique brand of hair-care products and exfoliates. Since I received my tickets, I’ve been having these bizarre daydreams about the trip. I’ll be working or watching the latest episode of “Cash in the Attic” with uber Brit Alistair Appleton and I’ll see myself at some LA party. I don’t know what I’m doing there, but I feel pretty at home. As I make my way from the bar to the indoor kiddy pool, I run into my good friend Corbin Bernson. He’s eating celery out of a papaya-flavored tortilla and talking to Parker Stevenson about a possible “Hardy Boys” remake. “You know, like the "Case of the Headless Magician" or some shit. We’ll get Corey Nemic to play the villain. I’ll direct. It’ll be fucking brilliant,” Bernson says as he greets me with a knowing nod. I nod back to Corbs and twist and turn my way through the crowd that is growing on the Plexiglass dance floor. I accidentally step on Tony Danza’s foot. He does an ape grunt, puts me in a headlock, yells “Samanther” and starts two-stepping with an ultra-buff Jonathan Lipnicki and that bitch Kimmy Gibler. I shake off the Danza encounter and head to the backyard. Kirk Cameron is atop a palm tree cursing all of the party-goers and decrying them as wicked sinners who will surely perish in the Fiery Furnace. In the middle of his sermon, the entire cast of Best of the Best 3 starts chanting “jump, jump, jump…” Soon, Kirk remembers a time when he thought the Good Book was actually "Tiger Beat," gives into the whims of the crowd, and leaps from the tree to land safely in the pool. This instantly causes others to follow suit and soon everyone is jumping in the pool fully clothed, splashing about, and listening to classic tunes of the ‘50s and ‘60s. Not wanting to get my Fila terrycloth jumpsuit wet, I head back inside and take the opportunity to makeout with a wasted Elizabeth Berkely who keeps yelling “I’m so excited, I’m so excited, I’m so scared,” but I don’t care because she’s totally Jesse Spano and Nomi Malone, and that’s wicked hot. Just as I am getting ready to ditch Berkley to try to score with the delightful Anne Hathoway (the closest thing to an A-lister at this thing), I hear his voice from across the room.
“You,” his voice cuts through me like a Glave. I turn to see Grieco standing over the onion dip and backlit like some kind of a god. He snaps his fingers and motions, no demands, that I join him.
“I read your shit, and I am not pleased.” His wax-thin eyebrows raise, his hair plugs spark, and he drops me with a shot to the nose. Grieco then starts to laugh and throws money at me on the ground just like in The Godfather.

Man, what an awesome daydream.