Twenty years in the future, a handful of young adults are going to wake up one morning with a flash of a half-recovered memory in their brains. And each one of them, at the same eerie moment, their every life action mystically dictated by 83 fateful minutes of their past, is going to call home and ask their mother, "When I was three years old did you take me to a movie about an anthropomorphic throw-pillow in a coma whose babysitters were a talking lady-window and her goosey vacuum cleaner friend that loved to brush her drapes-hair? And was the throw-pillow that was in the coma only wake-uppable by five magical singing balloons gathered up by three freaks in felt suits with giant heads and names that started with 'Ooh?'"
If they recover more memories -- they'll never recover the narrative, because that would require one that adhered to logic and a reasonable order of events -- then they'll be stuck with images of a marionette-like Cary Elwes as a cowboy who wobbles when he walks, a polka-dot-scorched Cloris Leachman, Toni Braxton addressing her unfortunate allergy to roses via "The Scratchy Sneezy Cough Cough Song," screeching endorsements of the awesomeness of bubbles, a strange detour into "super-yucky" pond pollution and the magical singing balloons robotically demanding "MORE KISSES!" in exchange for not floating away and ruining the impending birthday party of the coma-pillow. Hazier and more confusing will be their later hypnotherapy sessions where they'll swear they remember giant milkshakes, dancing cows, grumpy goldfish, and Jamie Pressley and Christopher Lloyd pretending to be Latino inside a giant flying sombrero ("BOARD THE HAT!" commands Pressley, before agreeing to help the Oogieloves retrieve the last balloon from a windmill by riding a gigantic, beanstalk-like tulip to the top).
Worse, if they've survived into adulthood after years of obeying all the film's toddler-mangling subliminal messages, they'll have to forgive and forget that a movie once instructed them to climb tall trees and then jump out of them, drink gallons of liquid ice cream as fast as they could, stand on tall ledges and lean very far over the yawning abyss of certain death below to reach shiny toys that were too far away, and always talk to total strangers, especially if they wanted to whisk you off to a second location with the promise of a balloon at the end of the trip.
What they might not be able to make sense of, even after years of treatment, is the way that the coma-pillow talked in its sleep like Meatwad from Aqua Teen Hunger Force and dreamed, Inception-style, of itself in the very act of sleeping and dreaming, multiple mirror images catapulting toward infinity.
2032's Rocky Horror Picture Show. It's here today. See it while you have the chance.