I'd wind up as that inexplicable shadow that haunts the Playboy mansion on special occasions. I'd slip up somewhere along the line (fart in the Grotto, bump into someone while raiding the 'fridge, etc.); Hefner would get paranoid and have the grounds cordoned off and evacuated before I had a chance to get out, then flood the place with concentrated nitrous oxide. They'd come back in and find me giggling like a drunken hyena in one of the whirlpool spas. I'd be spray-painted orange, GPS-tagged, and stand trial on one count of criminal trespassing and 275 counts of voyeurism with intent to distribute ("really, your Honor, I've never seen that camcorder before in my life!"). I'd receive a hero's welcome in state prison, but the accolades would hardly make up for "meatloaf Wednesdays". On second thought, I'd rather NOT be invisible.....its useful applications are limited to the nefarious and the weak-willed.
