I always figured by now I'd own a beautiful, ranch style farm, completely sustainaible by solar power, inhabited by my own special entourage of artists and writers...
maybe one celebrety, someone from 90210 or Law and Order...
and we'd live together as a mish-mash family of manic-psychotics and quasi-castaways, maybe there'd be a hundred of us, which means I'd have two hundred shoulders upon which to cradle my round chin when spirits felt downtrodden by the ugliness of humanity.
I'd have two magnificent Mastiffs, giant beasts that would chase hurled sticks, and I'd watch their powerful legs sweep divets into the air as they sprinted.
Holidays would be like Arafat's funeral, everyone firing rifles into the air and crying uncontrollably, and we'd all chip in a little scratch to get Morrisey to fly in and serenade us with bitter lyrical stylings, and everyone would watch, doe-eyed, smiling, for the first hour, until the serene atmoshphere gets broken by a single person screaming "Morrissy, you pussy!" from somewhere in the back, and the wave of bi-polarism would spread from person to person, as we'd all slowly remember what a fucking pussy Morrissy must be, with all his weak, sarcastic, smart-assed lyrics, and his faggy accent, and the silence would be replaced by blood-curdling screams of "you suck!" and "get off the stage!", and our screams would be joined by a chorus of shattering glass as the beer bottles rain against the sound guy.
Morrissy, of course, would be helicoptered away by his personal guard, and the rage would turn to weeping, which would turn to hugging and kissing and finally a monstrous orgy would occur, real kinky, anything goes, guy-on-guy, girl-on-girl, man-on-mastiff, and we'd all fuck till there was no shame left to be felt. One big, happy, family.