Me, Bobby D, and my 10 favourite foods

Bobby D, always laughing at my jokes.

So it seems I have been asked by both Nerissa and Heather to list my 10 favourite foods.
And this is where we fade into the dream sequence, because dream sequences are much more fun than lists.
The following scenario is not entirely impossible.
Well, maybe it is..
But let's pretend just for a moment, shall we?

My closest friends would be invited to my apartment for a party. The event would be talked about for weeks in advance because not only does my apartment have its own indoor double-decker caroussel, but it also has its very own bowling alley. In Paris, we switch it up a bit and call it Pétanque because then it seems somehow much classier.
Bobby D would show up first, because that crazy guy just loves to be punctual. We'd sit around drinking amaretto sours and eating salted cashews until the rest of the guests arrived.
"Fashionably late?" we'd say, and we'd laugh because we both think that's really lame. Punctuality is where it's at.

Then Christopher Walken would show up and we'd tell him:
"Chris, big guy, even when you're smiling you kind of freak us out but we love you, come and have a drink with us. " And he'd spot the salted Triscuits topped with slices of dilled havarti cheese and he'd say: "Aww. Now. this.. I like. "

I would dazzle the boys with my wit and humour and tell them how when I was a teenager I thought that this was such a posh combination, and how I scoffed at the old marble-cheddar routine. And we would all laugh, and then we'd laugh some more when we realized that the front of Chris' shirt was all covered in cracker crumbs.

And then Cary Grant would arrive with a bottle of pink champagne. We'd all look at each other and think, man this is going to be one crazy night.
We'd sit ourselves down at the table and dig into our bowls of steaming basmati rice because John Heder said he would be late, and anyway, if we wanted him to perform the Napolean Dynamite dance for us there's no way he could do it on a full belly.

So finally John arrives and just as he is dazzling us with his dance moves, Ricky Gervais shows up and, without missing a beat, joins him. And then I'm pretty much done for because if you've ever seen Ricky dance, well, it's killer.

Finally, my butler ewok would enter with our main course. Come on, it's a dream sequence. If I can have Cary Grant at my dinner party, surely I'm allowed to have an ewok for a butler?
My guests would gasp at the pasta bolognese that is placed before them, with the freshest bread on the side to mop up the sauce.
And the only thing you would hear anyone say at this point is: "Can't talk--eatin'."
And then we'd look up to see who said that and we'd realize that Homer showed up after all.
"Good to see you old buddy" we'd say. "There's some Duff in the fridge".

Dessert would be a slice of ooey, gooey pecan pie with a side of bananas, sprinkled liberally with chocolate covered almonds. I would cut up everything really small because when things are small they look fancier right? And then the doorbell would ring and we'd think:
"Who the heck is that?"
And then in walks Parker Posey with a guilty look on her face, holding a bag of Smartfood, and we'd all yell "Parker!" because we realized that we had almost forgotten about her. She is really late, but she knows I love that yummy white cheddar popcorn, and I can never stay mad at her when he brings me Smartfood.

Just when the party is winding down the butler would announce a new arrival.
"Charles Bukowski is at the door, madame. Shall I let him in?"
"Is he drunk?" I'd ask.
"Yes, I believe so and it seems he has brought a large tub of chocolate ice cream with him."
We'd all look at each other with smiles on our faces.
"Ok then, show him in."

The End