The Day After

This morning I woke with my sequins-laden, gloved left hand resting calmly on my chest. I stood up quickly, spun around effortlessly and struck a pose in the mirror. I put on my fedora and an open button down, letting it expose my white v-neck undershirt. I stepped outside and each time my feet made contact with the ground, the concrete beneath would light up with every step. I was suddenly joined by little Carleton Banks, dressed identically, and who pelvic thrusted with me through the streets. We descended into the train station, and were about to hop on the boogie and ride it downtown, until we were confronted by a gruff Wesley Snipes. He demanded I dance and show him who's bad. So I kicked the air in the butt and let out an all-purpose "Hoooo!" through the subway tunnels, while the mist and wind from an open air vent blew threw my hair. Satisfied, we left, left for another time, a time when Eddie Murphy was once a pharaoh. After briefly transforming into sand, I emerged, adorned in gold and ready to King Tut the night away. Suddenly, there were thousands of Philippine prison inmates in bright orange at my back, mimicking in perfect unison my every movement. I welcomed their support. It didn't matter if they were convicted felons or not, and it didn't matter if they were black or white. To prove this latter point, I morphed my face into the face of the unique peoples of the world, both female and male, of every skin color, of every background, but all beautiful. For my last face, I morphed into a longtoothed werewolf. Michael J. Fox, eat your heart out. The inmates ironically morphed into the living dead and they rocked all night long. Before you knew it, we were all dancing while the world danced with us. That's the way I made them feel. Finally, I moonwalked off stage left, and let them all scream for more.