It's Such a Perfect Day - Part Two

Back at our residence, the woman I love brews coffee while I start to read the newspaper I picked up on the walk home. Sports: all of my teams won, athletes are grateful and giving, NASCAR is defunct, hockey is exciting. Entertainment: all of the films showing are worth seeing, my favorite bands are coming to town. Business: health care solved, everyone has become is sitcom wealthy—comfortable, able to take nice vacations, unable to pimp rides or sport bling. Oh, there's tons of good stuff in the paper, but my favorite article discusses how scientists have developed, perfected, and implemented public teleportation.

"I thought traffic was light this morning!" I quip as she finishes her second mug of coffee. She smiles involuntarily, realizes that the joke is lame, and stops. I say something genuinely funny and we're both in stitches. We feel really good right now, after the nice breakfast and the good news and the laughing—so good that we make love again. This effort equals the earlier one, and we're both really pleased.

There's a knock at the door.

"Hey, we just teleported over," my friends say. "Let's go!"

We decide to go to Berlin first. Then we see some of Rome's ancient landmarks, and Greece, and we stop in to equatorial Africa to check out some elephants. After we've spent a few hours on a beach in New Zealand, we head back stateside.

The public teleportation station is near the park; inside, five guys are looking for a basketball game. Four of my friends and I accept their challenge, and a small crowd gathers as we begin. The teams match up well, with one exception. The guy I'm guarding can't seem to drive past me, nor shoot over me. He's totally helpless against me, but the same cannot be said for my offense. I am a triple threat. The game ends with backboard-shattering gorilla dunk—my gorilla dunk. The crowd, now somewhat large, cheers.

"In all my years of coming to this park, I've never seen that squad beaten!" an enthused fan says.

The defeated are angry. They refuse to shake our hands. One, the man I was guarding, is especially mouthy.

"Good game, guys," we say. "No hard feelings?"

The man responds by degrading the woman I love. I assure him that his behavior is unacceptable; his furor only escalates. We are now eye to eye, like boxers at a weigh-in.

He stumbles backward, stunned by my headbutt. His nose is bleeding, but not broken, and he will not require medical care, even after I dodge his punch and land one of my own. It's a square shot, beautiful in its way—it even makes the sound that John Wayne's punches made. Like the Duke, I lay him flat with this minimal effort. He apologizes and changes his life.

Everyone heads to the other side of the park, where an ice cream social is being held. I select a flavor containing real brownies. I eat my treat with a spoon and watch the puppies. Did I mention there were friendly puppies running around, unleashed? There are puppies. Lots and lots of puppies.