Bad Moo’d?

Madonna told me my parents were consuming way too many dairy products, so I had no choice but to relieve their refrigerator of a sealed carton of half-and-half and a smaller carton that was already open, a flat-tire wheel of Brie that probably should have been discarded weeks ago anyway, and a plastic tub of “light” sour cream whose mood was not improved at all by its trashing a full six days before its BEST IF USED BY date. So I did it. Under a very blondely ambitious Madonna’s watchful eye and watchful pointy cones, I, in my flannel pajamas, tossed it all. She thanked me and vaporized in a ray of light.
I scurried out of the house in search of replacements, because my parents needed dairy products before dawn or there would be hell to pay and I’d be required to pay out of my own pocket. I tripped through a labyrinth of unidentified, unevenly paved streets somewhere in TriBeCa, and nothing was open. As I realized with increasing horror and chagrin that I would have to disappoint my parents by confessing to having ditched their dairy (I would blame Madonna, but they’d probably roll their eyes and tell me to stop lying), I also realized that it all had to be a dream. Because there’s no way I’d run out into the street in flannel, especially while barefoot and with unkempt hair. And in real life I know about 24-hour supermarkets where the dairy is plenty. And also, who the hell listens to Madonna anymore, anyway?
So how do I explain the cuts on the soles of my feet and my mother’s refusal to take my calls? And every morning, when I awake, the three brown cows peering down at me from the skylight, their faces portraits of disapproval and disappointment? How now?