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Monday, January 5, 2009

I'm Yoda

I have a dream...actually, I had a dream; it was horrible and terrifying. I was being chased through a darkened forest by a demon army of skeletal chihuahua and toy poodles, their empty eye-sockets spitting forth fiery tears, their mouths filled with tiny razor-sharp teeth agape and bellowing satanicly agonizing yips and growls. On the backs of the horde was carried a dark and imposing figure, her eyes flashing wildly, her maniacal laugh echoing through the trees, and her powerful arms drawing a leather whip across the backs of her hell-hounds. It was Oprah. I ran blindly into the darkness, my lungs burning hot, turning my head to see her gaining, her weave waving beyond her like serpents in the night. Suddenly I stumbled. Horrified, I curled into a ball and awaited death's sweet embrace.

"Sir!" It was K-Ro. "Wake up sir, you're having a bad dream." Ah, the relief at hearing the voice, seeing the face, and smelling the jalapeno tinged breath of my friend, and personal assistant. I had fallen asleep in front of my computer.

"You have cheese on your chin," I told him.

"I was eating nachos," K-Ro said, "You're wearing lip-stick."

"I was writing," I explained.

I had been toiling for the past week, trying to find the words to properly convey my latest piece. I was certain it was to be the greatest story ever written. But the creative process was maddening, the memories of the events still too clear. It was like trying to describe having sex with Rosie O'Donnell before she has even left the bed. The wounds were still too fresh.

"It's time for a break," K-Ro said, "Don't you know what tonight is?"

"Is Knight Rider on?" I asked.

"No, silly," he said, "It's New Year's Eve!"

The joy! The one day I look forward to above all others, and it could not have come at a better time. It would be just the respite I needed.

"Are the others coming?" I asked giddily.

"Of course." K-Ro replied.

It has become a tradition of sorts for a select few close friends and I to come together on the eve of each new year. We spend the evening engaging in polite conversation, boast of our accomplishments for the year and toast our continued successes. We also play Trivial Pursuit. When K-Ro informed me that my friends had arrived my mood had lightened considerably.

I entered the den to greet my guests and found them sitting comfortably enjoying their drinks and each others' company.

"Do we have a new butler?" I asked K-Ro.

"No sir," he said, "I invited President-Elect Obama to join us this year."

"Of course," I said, momentarily confused. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. President-Elect."

"Call me Barack," he said.

"Of course," I said, "And have you met our other guests, Tom Cruise, George W. Bush, and Bill Clinton?"

"Yes, it is a pleasure to be here," he said.

Following our exchange of pleasantries, the five of us sat down and talked of the trials we each had faced during the previous year, of our successes and failures, and of our goals as we looked toward the coming year. We drank copious amounts of brandy, and as the hours passed the conversation turned to more personal topics.

"Tell me about Scientology," Bill said to Tom.

"Oh man, it's really cool," Tom said, "It's like Star Wars, in a way."

"Which Star Wars guy are you?" George asked, excited.

"I'm Obi Wan," he said, "but not the old one, the young one."

"Who am I?" Bill asked.

"Um, probably Han Solo," he said, then turning to Barack, "You're Lando."

"Uh, yes," said Barack, uncomfortably, "Does anyone have any thoughts on the problems with Mumbai?"

"I'm Yoda," I said.

"Is Mumbai the boy from The Jungle Book?" Tom asked.

"No, but they are both Indian," said Barack.

"Me and Jeb used to play Cowboys and Indians," George said, "I was always the Indian."

"Not that kind of Indian," Barack said.

"Yeah," Bill said, "not American Indian, Chinese-Indian."

"He would dress up in his boots and hat and I'd get drunk," George said.

The conversation went on well into the night, and as the clock approached midnight, I could feel the weight of the trials I had endured throughout the year give way to a certain hopefulness, and I knew that I was ready to face my task and begin work anew on the story that I was destined to write.

"Who wants to play Trivial Pursuit?" I asked.

"How about a drinking game?" George answered.


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