The day is approaching. The moment is near. My date with destiny lies at the end of a long red carpet trampled by a thousand pairs of heels so high girls can see the full circle of every balding pate of their respective dates. I am a bit nervous. Showtime is taping for the show to air on cable television. I am worried about them being able to edit the event down to something watchable, free from the boredom that is an inevitable by-product of delusions of grandeur. Probably shouldn’t worry though since there is enough cleavage and bare mid-riffs and tight dresses draped on shapely asses to make viewing bearable. I shouldn’t be so cynical about it since I have been there so many times across so many years. I should be considerate to those that are trapped some place far, far away trapped in some sort of dull existence that does not include the reality of the porn business, only the fantasy, which is hopefully what the Showtime editors will regale them with by leaving the dull and stupid parts on the cutting room floor.

Oh snap.

What if I get left on the cutting room floor?