I stumble out of bed naked, even though I don't sleep naked. (I apologize for even putting that visual in your head. Here are some lyrics from Irving Berlin to erase that: "Anything you can do I can do better...")
I stagger to the dresser, throw open a drawer and pull on my long johns (sorry: "Anything you can be I can be greater...") For some reason, my pristine white suit is missing the pants, even though I laid everything out the night before, so I grab my wife's white silk pajama pants out of the hamper and yank them on.
My white shoes have, in the night, inexplicably become a pair of baguettes. I have to speed-eat holes in them so I can wear them.
Nightmare logic declares this just fine. People will totally buy this look. I jump in my car to discover that it will only go in reverse. I speed backwards across Pasadena. There are approximately 100,000 more cars in town than usual. It's gridlock.
I bail on the car and take off on foot. Birds attack my shoes. I can't blame them. They look delicious. I fight the birds off with Wonder Woman's magic golden lasso somehow.
A helicopter swoops low out of the sky, and I hear my name. The pilot is gesturing to the rope ladder dangling, and as I climb it and reach the door I see that the pilot is Oprah. She too is wearing white silk pajama pants, except she meant to. In minutes she air-drops me on Orange Grove Boulevard, ground zero for the parade. As she veers over the trees she shouts, "I would have gone with 'There's No Business Like Show Business!'" and is gone.
There are no floats lined up. No crowds. It is the wrong day! I am wearing bread for the wrong day. It is a Sunday, and the parade's "never on Sunday" rule is in effect, a tradition since 1893, out of respect for churchgoers. The parade is on Monday, January 2nd.
I wake up for real. It is only January 1st. I find, much like Scrooge, there is still time.