Fantasy Dinner Party

Well, I would most definitely invite Raggedy-Ann and Andy to my dinner party. Once they’ve been seated, I’d bring in the soup, then would do a rather poor job of pretending to spill it all over the floor. “Ooops!” or whatever might be my exclamation while, without skipping a beat, I snatch whichever Raggedy-doll, maybe Ann, is closest and start frantically using her to clean up the piping hot soup. Trying to be polite but not able to bear the screams of pain from his lady, Raggedy-Andy would promptly throw-down and we’d brawl. I have no clue if I could go toe-to-toe with either of the Raggedy’s, so I’d be ready to fight dirty with…my LADLE!! This is no ordinary ladle mind you, it’s a really hot one. Oh, and it has enhanced radioactive powers, is tri-lingual, has a great signing voice and gives killer financial advice. The other guests, well Andy too, would be so entranced by my ladle’s vast superiority they would be frozen in wonderment. I’d use this distraction to it’s fullest by escaping to my garage to inhale all sorts of dangerous chemicals as to ensure that I’d have the courage, and lack of common sense, to proceed with my plan.

I would leap like a 70‘s crime-drama star into my trusty Subaru and hit that button I hope it has that takes me to space. I love the Moon, so I’d set a course or whatever for it, and roll up my windows before I reach escape velocity. Once on the Moon, I could dine alone and throw rocks farther than I’ve ever imagined, beautiful. I would explore the contents of my glove box (once safely on auto-pilot) and whip out some Ritz crackers, that cool cheese in a can stuff, and watch the Moon grow larger in my windshield while my mouth waters. After finding a nice overlook of the Sea of Tranquility, I’d undo my seat-belt and get out to get the lawn chair from under my golf clubs in the trunk when BOOM! Oh crap! My cheese in a can can’t withstand the pressures of being on a planet with no atmosphere and explodes with a mighty force. This sucks because it kills me. But, that’s what I get for being a bad host by using one of my guests to wipe my floor, literaly, and proceeding to try wiping the floor with another, metaphorically, and exploiting that universal weakness we all share for having the hands-down coolest ladle on the block.

That being said, shall we say my house for dinner? You’re all invited. Heck, let’s make it a tea party, bring your stuffed animals too. I’ll be good. Heavens, I wouldn’t want to die on the Moon covered in cheese now, would I? Oh, bring your own ladles, I don't have one. I'll return yours promptly, I promise.