Pocket.

”Hello and welcome to the Pocket of November Fourth! I'm your host, Jeff Probst.”

“Who you talkin' to, son?”

The man in the black dress shirt and khakis lowered his makeshift microphone, a fork, to regard the man sitting across from him at the long table. Jeff squinted as the surrounding ambiance glittered on the bling adorning the inquisitive rapper.

“Why it's P. Diddy! Folks, we have a very special celebrity guest sitting at the table tonight! But will he be voted off the table?”

“Voted...off the--? You crazy, kid. I'm a get my agent on the phone and straighten this out right here.”

“Frankly, neither of you boys're makin much sense,” chuckled a white-haired jovial older man to the right of Diddy.

“Ed Norton?! Yo, are we DEAD?”

“Actually my name's Art Carney, but I don't understand your second question. I'd have to answer ‘no,' if only on the basis of wishful thinking.”

“Well, things just got more interesting,” narrated Jeff, speaking now into a spoon, “It seems tonight's dinner features an all-star cast! To my left now is Matthew McConaughey, and joining us on my right is Kathy Griffin. Across from--excuse me Kathy, I'm still talking--across from--Kathy!! Across from Kathy is..is someone I don't think I recognize.”

“Um, yeah, I'm Ralph Macchio? Remember? ‘Wax on; wax off'? No? C'mon, I was the man that would fight for her honor?”

“Oggch, you can fight for my honor. Sometimes those crowds are tough when I'm doing my stand-up.”

“Lady--Kathy was it? Lady, I don't know who you are, but your voice is annoying and you need to move your foot NOW. I'd be more interested in the hot babe that just appeared next to you. How you doin'?”

“I'm no--I'm Trishelle...I'm doin jush fiiiine. Hey I think we need more wiiine....”

“Don't you think you're overdoing it, dear? Now who wants the first helping of Lasagna?”

The septet paused to regard the matronly figure suddenly across from Trishelle and next to Ralph. Sure enough, she held a platter of smoking lasagna between two oven-mitted hands, a smile never leaving her face as she scrutinized her dining companions. Jeff, playing with a match, cleared his throat to introduce her when a swirl of black smoke at the head of the table coalesced into a mysterious figure concealed by a navy blue cloak and clinging shadows.

“Yes, that IS Doris Roberts, and I suppose you're all wondering why I've gathered you here in this pocket dimension,” said the MCF in a booming voice, “None of us are in fact ‘here', but rather the idea of us coexists in the same digital nexus of information. We share the same chronological origins, a common date on which we all came into this world, albeit at different times. The rift that opened this nexus was but a simple exercise proposed by a blogger, one that I attempted as creatively and immediately as my powers allowed. Enjoy your dinner party, my fellow November Fourthians. This place, and these semblances of ourselves will exist as long as someone reads this dialogue. When the story ends, so too will we, until someone starts from the beginning...”

No celebrities were harmed in the writing of this post. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely the result of skimming. Send any and all complaints to Janet at The Art of Getting By. Dialogue and humor have never been MCF's strong suit. No, I don't know why Probst seemed to have slightly more information than the other guests. Stop asking. I distract you from further plot analysis by pointing out drunk Trishelle dancing while I slip away into the internet...