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I arrive at some anonymous building for the seven o'clock showing of Bringing Down The House (a movie which I have yet to see, but about which I have heard nothing but good things). When I enter the 'theater,' I find myself on what seems to be the set of some sort of movie, the star of which is Vin Diesel. We shake hands. An alien creature then swoops overhead. Vin and I duck, escaping by the skin of our teeth. We run for hiding, but this complex is swarming with these alien creatures, which happen to look a lot like those from Diesel's breakout hit Pitch Black. This ordeal continues, until somehow we escape. This is explained to me through all sorts of techno-jargon that I doubt would hold water to any sort of Dr. Who explanation, but all of it made perfect sense to me.

Upon escaping this terrifying -nay, horrifying- ordeal I glanced at my watch, which is weird because I totally don't wear one. As it turns out, the frightening, week-long tribulation that I had thought might take my own, Vin Diesel's and everyone else involved's lives was really nothing more than an hour and a half long. I decide to go to Dairy Queen and get a Dilly Bar before catching the nine o'clock showing of the aforementioned Queen Latifah/Steve Martin white-person-doesn't-understand-black-person-comedy.

When I return to the theater, Dilly Bar in hand, I find a parking space near the 'theater.' While turning in to the space, I accidentally bump against the car next to me. It wasn't enough of a bump to cause any damage, but the driver emerges from his bright blue Prowler in a huff.

The driver, as it turns out, is Charlie Sheen. He obviously wishes to have a word with me about my bumping into his expensive car, which, within the last few seconds has morphed into an expensive leather Gucci overnight bag. It is now bruised, somehow, and Mr. Sheen is getting visibly upset.

Now, I don't have the benefit of having looked at my own face in the midst of all of this, but, judging by my ridiculous accent, I am Joe Pesci in My Cousin Vinny.

"I'm sure," I say, "Mr. Sheen, that you have a perfectly good reason for being upset with me, but I can't seem to figure out why you, a famous Hollywood actor, might have gotten so overheated in the first place over such a trivial material good such as this."
"You bruised my fucking Gucci bag!" is his reply.
"...and for that I am truly sorry. However, if I continue to sit here chatting with washed-up stars of the past, I'm going to be late for my movie."

And that's it. That's how it ends.

As Jacob -who is sitting here impatiently, waiting to go to Dairy Queen to get Mr. Misties and then to Eclipse to do something else- might put it, "[I] have issues [I] need to get resolved."

I don't think he's too far off.

Peace.
-Todd