I'm going to improve my life!

I've decided that I need two things to make my life complete.

1) A soundtrack. This will play at all times. When I'm walking down the street, pop music. When I enter a room, horns and trumpets. When I say something witty, laughter. Everything I do, every emotion I convey will be enhanced with an appropriate sound effect or musical score.

2) Male backup dancers. They will tumble alongside me as I strut. Their purpose isn't to overshadow me, but to draw attention to my supreme awesomeness. Having small, tight-bodied (and possibly shirtless) male dancers surrounding me at all times is better than having an announcer.

Picture this. You're sitting in some intimidating meeting room in some fancy-pants highrise building in a bustling metropolis. There's a twenty-foot long, oak table. There's a wall of windows that overlook the streets below. There's one of those Star-Trek-looking phones.

At every one of the thirty chairs sits a suited older man. Each one has been waiting for ten minutes. That act alone has cost some public company at least ten thousand dollars.

This is the scariest room in the United States. This is where people wish for death at the feet of corporate America.

And then suddenly the lights flash. There's something invading the ambient noise of the room. The noise grows louder.

"Is that ..." one of the men says. But he never finishes his question. Because the large, double doors are thrown open as Europe's "The Final Countdown" blares into the room. Then, strapping young men run in doing back flips and front flips and jumping on the table.

Papers fly into the air as the evil business men stare at the scene in total shock.

The music crescendos. The men lithely line up at either side of the doors. And I enter wearing my jeans and some snarky T-shirt. I strut to the middle of the meanest men in the room. I throw a folder onto the table.

"Here's your ad campaign, gentlemen. Changes won't be necessary. You'll accept it as is. It'll cost you millions. It's been a pleasure doing business with you." And then I leave. The music and the dancers follow.

The business men just sit there for minutes. Then one of them punches a button on the phone. "Wanda," he says, "I need the checkbook."