Life's Golden Ticket by Brendon Burchard Page A

better rhythm than men, so I’m sure these three ladies are like Madonna— they really know how to strike a pose. ” He touched the three remaining women on the shoulder and whispered something to them.
    â€œOkay, folks, we’ve got our dancers. Unfortunately, since the men are just big chickens, it’s going to take a lot for these three women to convince the boys to dance with them. You never know what could happen at a good party. Of course, we all know that at any party there’s always that one guy who stands over by the punch bowl and refuses to dance. . . .” Harsh walked up to the fourth man, touched his head, and whispered something in his ear.
    â€œ. . . But you never know, maybe even that guy will dance tonight.”

    T he scene was set. The music blared from the speakers. The colored spotlights danced across the stage. The three men stood on one side, the three women on the other, while the other man stood alone at a table with a punch bowl. All seven were now conscious, staring at one another and wondering what was happening.
    Harsh suddenly pointed to the group of women and shouted, “You’re Madonnas! ”
    The women immediately broke into dancing. One woman did a vogue-like sequence, stoically moving her arms around her head; another shook like a stripper. The third woman danced rhythmically and made suggestive faces. They all looked ridiculous.
    The crowd howled.
    All the men onstage laughed as well.
    Harsh chuckled into the microphone. “Now, wait a second, men—you’re laughing at the women? I don’t see you busting a move out there. What is this, a high school dance? You’re a bunch of chickens. ”
    The men all put their hands in their armpits and started clucking. They kicked the ground, heads jutting out as if they had beaks, and moved jerkily about.
    The man at the punch bowl dropped the cup he was drinking from. Eyes wide, he looked horrified.
    Harsh pointed toward the strutting chickens and said, “What do you think, folks? How do our men up here look? ”
    Three people in the crowd jumped up and screamed, “They’re sexy! ”
    I could hardly stop laughing.
    One of the chickens suddenly approached the wallflower at the punch bowl and started ramming his nose into him, as though pecking him with a beak. The man jumped back and scrambled to the other side of the stage. One of the dancers intercepted him, though, and grabbed his butt. The man jumped again and bolted in the opposite direction, where another woman grabbed him lasciviously, pulling him close. She started dancing suggestively for him, and suddenly he didn’t seem to be in such a hurry. Another woman came and danced behind him, sandwiching him between her and the other woman. The man grinned, then started putting his hips into it.
    The crowd roared.

    A fter the show, I waited for twenty minutes inside Harsh’s tent. Finally, the hypnotist walked in, grinning.
    â€œSorry,” he said. “I’ve been chatting with Henry for a bit. What did you think of the show?”
    â€œI loved it—hilarious.”
    â€œOh, good. Thanks.”
    â€œI couldn’t believe how powerful your control was over them. Especially the shy people. They really screamed from their seats. Your mojo really worked.”
    Harsh laughed. “So why do you think it worked? Why did people do all those things they normally wouldn’t do? Why would they do things they would be embarrassed to see themselves doing?”
    â€œI don’t know!” I said. “I was wondering the whole time how you did it!”
    â€œActually, it’s pretty simple. Other than the hypnotic relaxation mumbo-jumbo, I essentially did only one thing up there tonight. I momentarily stripped the volunteers of their self-awareness by preventing them from being able to answer the question ‘Who am I being right now?’” Harsh paused and chuckled. “You see, if