When it comes to dreams, I'm a senile old coot who can't remember where he left his hemorrhoid cream let alone a dream that started airing at 3:30ish a.m. So when I remember what story my brain felt like airing I'm compelled to jot the mental film down or at least tell Wife while get ready for a day at the prison work camp and she's working hard for that last hour of sleep before she has to get ready for her prison work camp.
She's a dream savant. Wife will recall dreams from 10 years ago and retell them with spooky accuracy, right down to what color toes the three-toed whachamajig nails were as it chased her through Disneyland's "It's a Small World" while all the little children pelt her with Gummy Bears and sing "It's the End of the World (as we know it)."
That's the kind of things Wife dreams about. It makes me wonder what her pre-natal vitamins are laced with.
As for myself, I dream about football players wrapping their underwear around my pointy head.
I'm in a coffee shop with my buddy, the Crazy Asian, and we're talking Charger football and this weekend's game. In line to order are three or four behemoth human beings in Tennessee Titan uniforms - the Chargers opponents this Sunday. Because my mouth gets me in trouble in both real life and my dreams, I say within earshot of the Titans that "they suck, the Chargers have nothing to worry about."
"Dude, you shouldn't have said that," Crazy Asian says and points behind me at large masses of muscle and flesh that are the football players.
"Oh, I'm sure they didn't hear me," I turn, and they stare me down. I guess they heard. So I do what any red-blooded, courageous American male would do in this situation. I ran like the roadrunner.
From behind me I heard, "get 'em!" and figured it was on like Donkey Kong. I was going to be a Michael melt once these land masses caught up with me.
I ducked into a bathroom and hoped for an empty stall to hide in, but my typical luck follows me into sleep and they're all locked. Meanwhile standing in front of me are three Tennessee Titans, one of which is holding underwear - tighty whitees - likes it a leather strap, pulling it taut so it makes a popping sound each time. This wasn't going to end well. They admonished me for saying such things. And since I often stand by my word, I told the guys they obviously misunderstood what I meant when I said, "The Titans suck." They didn't buy it and quickly levied my punishment, despite my pleas and kicking and squirming like a pinned baby seal receiving medicine.
Let's just say the underwear didn't smell exactly like roses. It was more like the fertilizer used on the soil around the roses, except it smelled more like poo than dirt.
After the incident they let me up and we started talking football. I agreed they were much better than I was giving them credit for, and they said the Chargers would be a tough matchup.
Then Wife woke me up.
Maybe I should stay away from those 9 p.m. Jamba Juice runs just before bedtime, or mix the drink with some Vodka to really spice up the dreams.
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2 comments:
Are you sure you weren't just reliving how the jocks treated you in high school? And since you can remember what the underwear smells like that means your dreams must come in smell-o-vision. That kicks ass!
Wake up Mike! Wake up!
Oh wait it's not a nightmare, the Dodgers really did just spend $36 million on Andruw Jones.
Oh sorry about that.
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