I graduate at the top of my class at Harvard Law School. Afterward, the university’s president shuts down the school, since its mission of educating the best legal mind has been fulfilled.

I get a summer internship clerking for Ruth Bader Ginsburg. She’s so inspired by meeting me that she lives for another hundred years.

Ten seconds after graduating, I’m offered a job at the A.C.L.U. My salary is raised to what it would be if I worked at a high-powered corporate law firm because I always make strong eye contact when I shake someone’s hand.

I marry a woman, named Sarah or Rebecca, who is Jewish, like my mom and me. Even though we are happy together, Rebecca or Sarah understands that my true loves are justice and reading insightful newsletters that my mom sends me.

During my first court case, the opposing lawyer just gives up after hearing how moving my sixth-grade portrayal of Orphan No. 4 in “Oliver Twist” was.

I lose my second court case because every good lawyer faces setbacks. But it turns out that the judge was actually taking bribes from the defendant, who is also the son of the District Attorney, which isn’t really fair at all.

During my third case, I put both the crooked judge and the crooked defendant in jail because of a great law idea that my mom texted me the night before.

Every time I object, it’s sustained.

The Harvard Law alum Barack Obama and I become good friends. We have lunches every Sunday at which I don’t slouch or talk with my mouth full. He is unbelievably impressed.

I argue all of the most important Supreme Court civil-rights cases. Even though I’m a straight, white, cisgender man, everyone agrees that I’m the best person to handle them.

When I present my closing arguments, the judges always scream, “YES, EXACTLY, THANK YOU!”

During one of our lunches, Barack Obama tells me that he loves my mom’s apple-crumble pie and insists that she share the recipe with Michelle.

I get coffee with a high-school friend who became a television writer. He praises my decision to study law, since writing isn’t a real skill and television hasn’t been entertaining since “The Good Wife” ended.

Criminals immediately admit they’re guilty after seeing what a well behaved young man I am.

I appear on the covers of Time, Fortune, and Rolling Stone magazines because I look so handsome now that I’ve shaved.

I cut back my Sunday lunches with Barack Obama from weekly to monthly. Barry is really broken up about it, but I’m just so darn busy between my cases, pro-bono work, and visiting my extended family on a regular basis.

Members of my extended family tell all their friends about my accomplishments and how my mother raised me perfectly. They never talk about my cousin the architect.

I do so well on pro-bono cases that my clients always insist on paying me and can miraculously afford to do so.

I work on hundreds of cases every day. My brain is more powerful than any other brain because I exercise for fifteen minutes every morning.

I meet Hugh Jackman at a fancy charity gala. We talk about “Les Mis” and his show on Broadway but never mention his role as Wolverine. He confides in me that he is looking for a new best friend—a woman in her mid-fifties who talks about cats like they’re people. I tell him that I know the perfect person.

I become a senator, a Supreme Court Justice, and the President of the United States—all at the same time. The Constitution allows for that now; the country amended it because I’m so polite, dress extra nicely, and send prompt thank-you notes after interviews.

I die peacefully in my sleep at a hundred and seven years old, surrounded by my loving family. As I look back on my long and successful life, my final words are “I’m so grateful that my mom told me not to pursue comedy, an unrealistic and fanciful career choice.”