I am a male...

So I'm peacefully drifting along with the other box jellies, nibbling an occasional passing crustacean and semi-dozing, when unexpectedly Oprah and her whole entourage loom out of the depths. As they're about to pass by, she suddenly wheels about with a thrust of her flippers, swims up to me, and bubbles, "Girl, that hair's a mess, all straight and straggly; you ain't never gonna get you a male jelly looking like that. We gotta do you a makeover right now! Rita, come over here and tell us what to do immediately. Just look how lank and lifeless this stringy mess is," and she holds up a bunch of my tentacles and waves them at Rita as she glides up from back in the entourage-school. Well, enough's enough, I think, so I zap her with a handful of nematocysts, and she lets go real fast. Girl, you need a serious attitude adjustment; you need Dr. Phil. She lets go my tentacles, heads to the surface, breaches, and quiet settles in again here in the depths. I am a male, I try to yell after her, but, not having vocal cords, nothing comes out. So I just drift off with the herd, snacking on minute crustaceans, napping, and enjoying the quiet.

Mystery guest

Oprah and I are at IHOP discussing American Idol critics and which of them should be invited to grace a seat on her set. Oprah insists Paula Abdul deserves the spot because she’s the ‘kind’ critic. I argue for Simon Cowell. I adore his honesty although others boo him. She says he’s mean and insulting. I say he calls a spade a spade. She lashes my cheek with a bacon slice and beans me with a sausage. I sail a stack of pancakes at her face, and soak her suit with o.j.. Yolk drips off faces and juice spills down aisles. Management calls someone out to clean up the mess, and Ryan Seacrest and Kato Kaelin appear out of nowhere.

Very small

Very small, I am able to stand under one of the chairs in the audience. Very small, I have a key in my mouth and a coin under my feet. When a hand reaches under the chair I gasp and retreat. The hand gropes around, the hand is desperate to find something. What an awful beast the hand is. I leap from side to side. I hop over the hand and fret I may have touched it. Frantic moments. O Oprah, don't you give a damn about the fate of the wee folk? Oh, I have dropped the key. The hand has got a sweaty hold of it. I shall never be able to drive off in a car in which I must attach a human cane to my leg to press on the gas and sit on the high hat of a jester to peer over the wheel.

Keep the car

I’m a taxi driver, Oprah is my first, and only fare. Applause. During the ride to Harpo she reads me excruciatingly bad poetry. Applause. I ask her not to because I am deaf, but that's a lie. She reads anyway, presses a hand to her heart and dabs at tears. So do I. Applause. Her fare is one hundred and ten dollars. She gives me two hundred and tells me to keep the car. Applause. Looks around cab to see where applause is coming from.

A little vulnerable

I was wheeled in on a stretcher, parked near the stage. People were shouting and Oprah was completely ignoring me. I kept thinking maybe she couldn't see me, but I wasn't about to say anything. When she finally saw me there, in my hospital nightgown she turned to one of her assistants and said Can someone remove this thing...

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