Congratulations on Sleeping With Alison Goldfrapp!

It’ll be an exciting morning for you. Since you became unemployed three weeks ago most days have more or less blended together. You wake up at around noon and eat some frosted mini-wheats, then you take a nap until three or four in the afternoon. After the nap you wake up again and drink until you don’t know when you are, and the whole cycle repeats itself.

Today, however, you’ll be nearing the critical “prize” section of your cereal. Every three or four days you’ve looked forward to finding your prize with great trepidation. It takes a lot of effort as a 27 year-old man not to just reach in and grab the fucker, but it helps break up your days and add a little suspense to your otherwise suicide inducing existence.

So today, when the little cardboard sheet drops into your bowl you’ll all but clap your hands with joy. It’ll be unreadable at first, obscured by a mixture of wheat dust and powdered sugar, but after a thorough dusting off you’ll open the plastic and read just what crappy mail order gift you’ve won this morning.

Today’s card will be odd, however. It’ll fold out in a way which seems to defy the logic of time and space until it eventually becomes an envelope. Inside there will be a sheet of paper a single backstage pass. The paper will read “Spend a Night With Alison Goldfrapp!”

It’ll also contain directions on how to reach her concert from your home, which will be downright freaky-dekey. Still, you’ve spent far too long in the confines of your studio apartment so you’ll fire up your Honda Accord and drive down to the venue to watch her performance.

You’ll feel like you’re getting syphilis just watching her sing and dance, waving her lady-parts around like its the best way to make a difference in the world, but you’ll also be somewhat entranced. She’ll be like some kind of skanky, post-modern humanitarian..

After a surreal, arousing and unnerving performance you’ll be ushered back stage by a pair of burly men to Goldfrapp’s green room. There you’ll be confronted with a wide variety of luxuries, from exotic fruits and inventive sandwiches to rare liquors. You’ll spend most of your time on the liquors, of course.

After fifteen minutes and three 18 year old scotches she’ll arrive, dressed like a tarted up Cyndi Lauper. She’ll smile and speak to you in an adorable British accent.

“Hullo. I’m Alison,” she’ll drawl. Then she’ll sit on your lap and the two of you will start making out. It’ll be super hot, but the room will be filled with people with dog heads and a mummy shuffling and moaning, so the experience will be a little weird.

Still, you won’t fight her when she unzips your fly and mounts you properly. She’ll do all the work, which is what she expected of your loser ass, so don’t worry about that, and when you’ve come after ten minutes you’ll feel like a strange situation just got stranger. Allison will dismount you, saunter over to the bathroom, and close the door.

When she doesn’t come out after fifteen minutes you’ll take that as your cue to head home, taking your car keys from a valet dressed like an Egyptian boy.

The next day you’ll feel dirty, but sated, like your life just reached some sort of zenith of being fucked. You’ll start looking in the want-ads for various odd jobs, thinking all the while that last night you’d slept with Alison Goldfrapp, and that you’d even managed to fuck that up, thinking that it is time for a big change.

Congratulations on sleeping with Alison Goldfrapp, by the way. We suggest you get tested.