Six Ridiculous Recurring Dreams

At 4:00 in the morning, I hear a knock on the door.  I stumble out of bed, open and fall right through into the black night sky.  As I fall, I get cold and realize I’m wet and then I splat onto the face mask of a football helmet.  I drip down for eternity until I fall into the QBs mouth.  I’m spat out as he calls the play and as I slowly plummet to earth I look up to see that I’m the QB.  As I fall through the blades of grass I notice that they all have faces and they all look just like me.

I’m on a date with Lindsey Lohan and I can’t stop calling her Laura.  She slaps me every time I do and vomits puppies.  My hair starts to fall out and my eyelashes grow out of control.  Her freckles begin speaking Spanish and then she jumps from the Golden Gate Bridge.  The paparazzi take my picture instead and I look like an idiot in the tabloids.

It’s a Disney perfect morning complete with cartoon birds whistling on my window sill.  I hear a dog whimpering and track it to my studio closet. I open the door and catch from the corner of my eye, a transparent white shadow of a small dog scurry away into the next room.  The next room is my same studio with the same closet door and the same whimpering dog and scurrying shadow to the next studio and closet door again and again and again and again.

I’m awakened by Christina Applegate writing “I love you” on my forehead with her tongue.  Then she suddenly tells me that she is gay and my legs fall off and walk into the kitchen and turn into jelly beans.  She reaches under her shirt, takes out two purple balloons and ties them to my still floating upper body with locks of her hair.  I drift into the sky; she laughs out loud and calls me an asshole.  I’m wearing a powder blue tuxedo and a Chicago Cubs baseball hat.

There is a high-stakes golf tournament on and I’m in the lead on Sunday.  I step up to the tee, address the ball and notice off to my left a barbershop quartet under a low canopy singing in four-part harmony, “What’ll you have?”.  “Make it a double”, I reply.  I take a practice swing and realize that I’m swinging a miniature vacuum cleaner.  In my backswing, I’m distracted by a cheering section of gangbanger Hispanic girls getting the word “Four” tattooed on their eyelids.

Just after I fall asleep, Maynard jerks and sits straight up and says, “I can’t sleep Pop.  There is a little boy under my bed.”  I look under the bed to humor him and see a little boy who says, “I can’t sleep Pop.  There is a little dog in my bed.”