Excerpts From My Fantasy Life



Fantasy No 1. — Basketball Player. I am drafted as the number one overall pick in the NBA draft, held in Madison Square Garden, New York City, NY. Scouts are divided as to the merits of drafting me first overall. As a basketball player, I have a fairly unique skill-set. I can hit any shot that I attempt from anywhere on the court, every single time. However, I cannot pass the ball, play defense, or rebound.

Is this gonna be good for the Knicks?” Marv Albert says as I am drafted. “Yeah, Oliver racked up a 73.2 per game scoring average in college. However, he didn’t pull down a single rebound in all four years.” Marv’s co-host, Craig Sager, can only shrug in response, and looks completely mystified.

During my first year in the NBA, I have a 100% shooting average and score 80 points a game. I also do not have a single assist. My teammates loathe me, and I spark further controversy when I “drop” my first rap album, entitled Fuck Tha Critics. In the finals, I lead the Knicks over the hated Los Angeles Lakers, winning the series with a buzzer-beating 97-foot jump shot. Then, I retire at the top.

Analysis: The patient shows circumspection in limiting his basketball abilities within the context of the fantasy; as in real life, he cannot pass, rebound, or guard anyone either. However, in real life, he also cannot hit a jump shot, except from a single area of the court that’s only 10 feet away from the basket. Patient displays signs of egotism.


Fantasy No. 2 — President. After retiring from the NBA, I run for President (on the Democratic ticket, of course). Though I have no political experience, I win over the voters with my “commonsense” ideas, and my homespun, folksy charm — sort of like in the movie “Dave.” In my first term, I balance the budget, pull us out of Iraq and Afghanistan, and invade — oh, let’s say — France. I am re-elected with a sweeping mandate for my second term, but am assassinated in a hail of bullets while cutting the ribbon for an orphanage for, uh, lepers. “Why?” I say, with my final dying breath. “There was so much more… to be done.”

My Secretary of State gently closes my eyes. “He belongs to the ages now,” he says. Then I get one of those big funerals with flags and horses and stuff.

Analysis: The patient should recognize that this fantasy was much more plausible during the Bush years, since the election of Obama just proves that even if someone cool gets elected, everyone will just bitch and moan that he hasn’t fixed everything immediately. …Patient shows signs of a death-wish.


Fantasy No. 3 — Pope. In what is perhaps my least viable fantasy of all time, I am chosen as the new Pope, owing to a mistake made by the College of Cardinals. (Let’s ignore the fact that I was already killed in my previous fantasy.)

As Pope, I find my efforts at reform stymied by the restrictive structure of the Catholic Church. Thus, in a grand, sweeping gesture, I give the church’s entire trillion dollar endowment away to the poor, restoring the church to its roots. I wander the land, traveling from town to town, dressed in a humble cloak made of burlap. Squirrels and bluebirds perch on my shoulders. “Hey, aren’t you the Pope?” the peasants say, as I enter a new town. “I prefer that you simply call me… brother,” I reply.

Then, I’m assassinated by Opus Dei, or whoever the bad guys were in the DaVinci Code; I didn’t read it. …A visibly shaken Brian Williams must announce the news of my murder to a stunned world: “Pope Awesome the First has been killed,” he gravely intones. I am then beatified as Saint Awesome. Pilgrims visit my grave and report miracles there or something.

Analysis: WTF? Assassination again? …And isn’t this basically the same as the last fantasy? Why do all of these fantasies end badly? Even the basketball one didn’t turn out that great. …Patient exhibits strong signs of a death-wish.


Fantasy No. 4 — The Break-Up Speech. Contra the “Pope” fantasy, this is my only fantasy with any practical real-world application, as I am just terrible at breaking up with people. Even if I’m the one dumping them, I’m then like, “…Wait, I could still have sex with this person.” So then I un-break-up, until they get sick of the whole thing, and break up with me.

In this fantasy, I’m really good at breaking up, and I give this great break-up speech, which I actually had written down somewhere in an old notebook. I can’t remember it anymore, but it was like four paragraphs long, and it ended with the words “…And your life will be ashes without me.” Profound!

The hypothetical girl is then moved to tears, and then begs me to come back to her. I shrug my shoulders nobly: “No; together we still have our memories; that will be enough to last us until the end of time.” Then we have hot break-up sex, and when we’re done, I leave the room, without a single backwards glance.

Analysis: …Okay, all of these fantasies are fixated on failure, endings, or disaster. The patient exhibits a dangerously high level of narcissism combined with an annoying level of overwroughtnesss. …Recommend that he be confined to a mental ward immediately. 

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