By chance, one of my screenplays is discovered by a Hollywood Producer. Suddenly I am not an impoverished, perpetually girlfriendless loser but a big-shot screenwriter with a full head of hair. (Now I can afford Sy Sperling's Hair Club for Men.)

I'm at a Hollywood party hanging with all the cuties.

I see Alicia Silverstone with a glass a champagne dangling in her hand, alone, looking bored.

ME: Hi, my name's Dickie.

ALICIA: Are you that screenwriter?

ME: I'm not sure if I'm that screenwriter. But I write screenplays.

ALICIA: You're Dickie Richards?

ME: That's me.

ALICIA: A bastard casting agent didn't give me a part in one of your movies.

ME: Tell me the son-of-bitch's name and I'll see that he never works in this town again.

ALICIA: No, that's alright. You don't have to go through all that trouble.

ME: I insist!

ALICIA: No, it's alright. He's also my brother-in-law. I don't want to get him in trouble.

ME: Say, you like kishkes? I know the best Jewish delicatessen in L.A.?

ALICIA: I would fucking kill for a good kishke right now.

ME: They're still open...

ALICIA: Let's get out of here.

The fantasy gets much more involved and intimate once we leave the deli and head to her place. We even get married. She bares me 9 children. I think it's way too much kids but she really loves children. What am I supposed to do, deny her her motherly instincts? I am not only a reproductively prolific husband but a caring husband. I go on to write her a part for a movie that is even juicier than "Clueless." While she is on the platform receiving her Academy Award, in tears she thanks me for believing in her. She blows me a kiss. I blow it right back at her.