I dream of a day when edible forms of plastic will be in every food product, where Nestle owns the ocean, and Myspace has its own over-the-counter brand of crack rock. I dream of a day when I no longer have to wipe my own ass, everyone has a solid gold toilet, and the air smells like butter popcorn flavor jelly beans, “lifted” from the bulk candy store at the “good” mall by your “bad” friends. We’ll have candy cigarettes for lunch and hollow chocolate crucifixes for dinner. We will gather around the government alloted public gyro meat rotisserie and carve off our weekly ration with chainsaws. We’ll pray once a month to the G-dess (a poster of an 80’s model sprawled out over a neon green lamborghini wearing those light-up LA Gear hi-tops we all wanted so badly when we were youthful) Bears without their roller skates and Shriner hats will be shot on sight and contributed to the communal gyro pile. People will clap on the 1 and 3 while singing our global anthem (the doo- doo-doo-doo part of Uncle Tom’s Cabin by Suzanne Vega). Oh glory be.