Welcome to the Land of Aubrey, where reality is a misnomer. Where things aren’t how they really are but are how you wish they were and how you want them to be…
In the Land of Aubrey, you never have to exercise. LA Fitness be damned, with its sweaty smelly bodybuilding Creatine-addicted MetRX pencil-neck asswipes, I never have to step foot in your fetid olfactory nightmare again. If one so chooses to go for a run outside, the Land of Aubrey is chock full o’ jasmine and honeysuckle with the perfect temperature of 75 degrees. Every. Single. Day.
Dating in the Land of Aubrey is perfect. Boy likes Girl, Girl chooses if she likes Boy, and, if so, humping shall ensue. There are no double-standards in this magical land. Spooning is required, morning sex is requested, and birth control makes you lose weight and increases the size of your breasts. If Girl tires of Boy in the Land of Aubrey, she tells him and doesn’t have to deal with him ever again. (Unless she starts thinking back on the good times, at which point Boy is required to call Girl with the sole purpose of stroking her ego, if not other unmentionables.)
People marry in the Land of Aubrey, with big, elaborate weddings that are paid for by the state. Nobody is allowed to leave these spectacular events after 15 minutes, even if they refuse to drink and want to go home. People cavort, drink, dance, smooch, imbibe, exhert, engage, entice, captivate, woo, enjoy, and other like verbs that mean they’re having nothing less than a kick-ass time. And no past misadventures are brought up during the speeches. The happy couple leaves to go to some tropical and wonderfully relaxing land to procreate their little hearts away, beckoned off by the tipsy wedding party and white rose petals. (No bubbles — those are gay.)
Working is optional in the Land of Aubrey. Everyone has plenty of what they so desire, be it Nutella or Mashed Potatoes or Fruit20 waters or avocados or Boys or Flowers or Sex or dogs or cats (which, incidentally, don’t actually poop. Ever.) so wanting is rare. People go to work to have something to complain about and a dedicated computer and free reign to email and IM to their little heart’s content.
Alcohol is the Nectar of the Land of Aubrey, and its National Drink. (The National Pastime is rampant sex, of course, with elevated foreplay levels; the National Songs are “In ‘da Club” and “Ignition Remix”, the National Movie is “Say Anything…”, the National Flag is in a lovely shade of pink; the National Flower is the Tulip; the Queen is, appropriately, Aubrey; applications for the King are still being taken.) People get as drunk as they want to in the Land of Aubrey — criminals are the only ones who get so drunk that they pee/barf/shit on themselves. Hangovers don’t exist. Accordingly, there is no such thing as ‘whisky dick.’ It is fine to drink after work, by yourself, on your deck, on a coastal town (the Land of Aubrey, being paradise, contains midland mountains and is entirely surrounded by water, it’s definitely a coastal town. Dawson’s Creek tried to film at the Land of Aubrey but was rejected by its Board of Regents because James van der Beek’s head would take up too much square footage.) Drunk dialing increases your yearly revenue as well as your probability for sex.
The Land of Aubrey is a hedonistic pleasure paradise, and relaxation is key. Stress levels and blood pressures are outstandingly low; disease and illness are uncommon. All the hot men are single (until the Queen chooses otherwise,) all the drinks are double, and all the orgasms are triple.
I hate waking up.