Scantily clad host and prize displayers. Dressing rooms stocked with every whim. Fine vodkas at the ready, all rocks style. Talented masseuses on hand for pre and post show relaxation. Reinventing the Rat Pack lifestyle.

Might be dangerous for me to be inserted into star life. Control mechanisms have been installed, yet my underlying instant gratification hunger beast program would most assuredly rage till dawn whenever possible. I would be unable to refrain from sampling as much young starlet booty that pranced across my path. What's the point of being rich and famous, surrounded by the beautiful people, if I can't bend them over and fuck them creamy.

Picture this. Back of a black limo, black leather interior, driver's partition all the way up. On the way to some awards show. Half a bottle of bubbly in the bag. An expensive dress hiked up Kate Winslet's exquisite thighs. Me drinking her in. Spin her around, hold onto the back of her neck with my mouth, doggy grinding her silly. Message waiting on my cell from Christina Ricci to meet her backstage so I can nail her up a wall.

Christ if there are groupies. Alright becoming a little too excited and its first thing in the morning at the office. Good morning boners for my coworkers are not necessary. Must end this brain wave. Later.