Have you ever had someone try to tell you a funny story, but when nobody laughs, they say, “Well, I guess you just had to be there.” ? Actually, this happens to me quite a bit. So before I tell you my funny story, I will attempt to actually put you in the scene:

It was Friday at around 12:45 PM. The place: Good Stuff restaurant. The city: El Segundo, California. This is your quintessential beach-town eatery, with floor to ceiling windows and surfboards on the walls. The air outside was rather chilly, with just a hint of the morning fog still lingering. Inside, the temperature was a comfortable 76 degrees.

We were seated in one of the less desirable spots: a center table, right near the front door. It was a table for four, yet there were only three of us. I sat facing west, while my friends chose to sit opposite of me, facing east.

There were no females in our party, so the banter tended to lean toward the discussion of the surfer-chick waitresses, most of whom did a very good job of distorting the restaurant logo on the front of their t-shirts: gOOd sTUff.

After my friends and I finished confirming our heterosexuality, the topic of discussion turned toward childhood exploits. This was the story I told:

One day, when I was a kid, I gathered all of my friends and family to watch me “pop a wheelie” on my friend’s bike. There they all were, lined up on the sidewalk, waiting for this momentous event. I climbed onto the bike, got it up to speed and when I felt the time was right, I pulled up hard on the handlebars. Unfortunately, in my excitement, I pulled up too hard. Before I knew it, my butt was kissing the asphalt and the bike was crashing into a parked car.

This story got a little chuckle out of my coworkers and reminded one of them about how, when he was a child, he used to be able to ride a wheelie all the way around the block.

“In fact,” he said, “sometimes I still dream about riding a wheelie down the street. Don’t you ever dream about doing something you used to do a long time ago?”

“Not really,” I replied. “Well, sometimes I dream I’m having sex.”

Anyhow, that’s the story. What? OK, maybe you had to be there.

Late Saturday night, I came to a sudden realization: I need to be an actor. Not just any actor. I need to be the most amazing actor who ever lived.

I’m serious about this. I’ll have to go to one of those top-notch acting schools and learn how to method act. When my teacher tells me to be a chair, I will become a chair. People will walk by and admire my exquisite craftsmanship. And when someone tries to sit on me, I won’t collapse from his weight. I’ll remain sturdy, yet surprisingly comfortable. And why? Because all that time, the only thing I will be thinking is I’m a chair. I’m a chair. I’m a goddamn chair.

After a while, when someone told me to be a chair, I wouldn’t just crouch down and look like some moron with his arms sticking out, I’d become a fucking chair. Not just any chair, a really nice chair. Maybe something from the Herman Miller collection. Oh, I know, an Eames lounge chair. Yeah, if I’m gonna become a chair, I might as well become the king of all chairs: the Eames lounge chair. Charles and Ray really knew what they were doing when they came up with that one: stylish, versatile and oh so comfortable. Of course, the ottoman would be a pain in the ass to pull off. But I think I could do it.

Once I really had it down — I mean, really had it down — you know what I’d do? I’d walk into one of those modern-furniture shops on La Brea avenue and just turn myself into an Eames lounge chair. Eventually, one of the sales people would notice me and go ask the manager why they had an extra Eames lounge chair in the showroom. She’d say she didn’t know anything about it and the sales person would say that she didn’t order it and then they’d call their supplier and ask if he accidentally sent it. But the supplier would say that it wasn’t on his books. Eventually, someone would get fired over it and it would all be because of me.

Weeks would go by. Thousands of asses would sit on me every day, each one testing my acting ability and my endurance. Until finally, one woman would just walk up and say that I would be the perfect addition to her sunken living room. She wouldn’t even sit on me. She would pay top dollar for me and then some underpaid workers would pick me up and wrap me in padding for shipment.

And even when I was in that padding, I would not break character. I would remain a chair. A really cool chair. They would load me on a big padded truck and drive me to the top of the Hollywood Hills. There, I would find my new home, on the top floor of a five-story house, positioned comfortably on a white, shag carpet. Oddly enough, no one would ever sit on me. I’d just be there as a showpiece, to look at and admire.

But this would not be the home of just any rich woman. It would be the home of a big-time Hollywood producer. And one day, while they were all sitting on their white leather couch, admiring my beauty, I would slowly break character and become myself again. Of course, this would scare the bejeezus out of them. But eventually, they would start to calm down.

After everyone changed out of their soiled underwear, they’d come upstairs and have a chat with me. “That was amazing,” they’d say. “I had no idea you were just a man. I was convinced for these past four months that you were a finely crafted Eames lounge chair.”

Of course, this would lead to many starring roles in blockbuster films. And after a while, Lorne Michaels would call me up and ask me to host Saturday Night Live. And I’d be like, “Saturday Night Live? Are you fucking kidding me?” And he’d be like, “No, I’m not fucking kidding you. Do you want the gig or not?”

So, yeah, I’d take the gig, and I’d have a blast rehearsing with the cast. Mia Rudolph would continue to hit on me (despite the fact that I didn’t know how to spell her name), but I’d turn down her advances. I mean, she’s pregnant, for godsakes. And then the moment I was waiting for all my life would come: the photo shoot.

They’d hire some amazing photographer to take these incredible pictures of me, super stylized with a little humor thrown in. They’d use them for the commercial breaks. But of course, they’d give them to me after they were done. Seriously, you can’t get photos like that from just any photographer. You need a real pro. And if that means I have to study acting for years and take the form of an Eames lounge chair for over four months, damn it, all I have to say is, “What color upholstery would you like?”