Recently, I’ve been having some pretty wacky dreams. Not sure what they mean, if anything, but here they are.

• On Tuesday night, I had spicy (not good, mind you, but spicy, which is the best you can hope for here on the Right Coast) Mexican food late at night. Big mistake. I slept fitfully and, for the most part, “dreamlessly,” which I understand to mean simply that you don’t remember your dreams after you wake up, not that they didn’t occur. I’m sure whatever I actually dreamed about early on was cool, but the only part I do recall was at the tail end. I dreamt that I was sitting in a pub quaffing Black and Tans, when the bartender turned on the evening news. A newsman was interviewing a prosecutor from Dumbass, South Virginia named Mike Hunt, who kept leaning toward the camera so that his face would fill up the screen. Mr. Hunt was very proud to be the first D.A. since Salem to try anyone for witchcraft. The reporter asked how he could tell, and he said “some guy with a rap sheet told me they were, and I believe him.” The alleged victim of said witchcraft, who was obviously drunk, chimed in and said “they turned me into Newt!” Newt Gingrich then appeared and said “well, you must have gotten better, then, eh?” Mr. Hunt then said “nevermind the Newt, we know they’re witches because they’re dressed like them.” The camera then cut to an attorney for one of the alleged witches, who protested that his client had not in fact been dressed as a witch voluntarily, she was merely dressed that way now because Mr. Hunt and the sometime Newt had dressed her that way, and also placed a false “witch” nose on top of her real one, to boot. Mr. Hunt conceded as much, but insisted that she and the other two hapless young ladies were, in fact, witches. After all, the Newt-victim had picked them out in a police line-up. The newscaster asked who else was in the line-up, and Mr. Hunt replied “Nobody, of course. These three were the witches, why waste anyone else’s time by asking them to stand in a line-up, too? Don’t be silly. The camera switched back to the anchor, who said “let’s hear what the locals have to say.” The camera trained on CalTechGirl, who said “Guilty, guilty, guilty. I don’t care if they did it or not, Dook sux!” Then I woke up, and lo and behold, the TV really was on. Mrs. X was watching Good Morning America, and the news crew was rambling on about some totally gay sport whose French-sounding name I can’t remember. Couldn’t have been too important.
• On Wednesday night, I’d had a long day after not getting much sleep the night before, so I went to bed a bit earlier than normal. Usually I stay up to watch my favorite show, South Park, but this time I just couldn’t keep my eyes open that long. Unsurprisingly, perhaps, I dreamt that I was watching the show, possibly as a defense mechanism to keep me from waking myself up to watch the real thing. In the dream, the drawings looked about the same as they do in the real show, and the voices sounded about right, too, but rather than featuring any of the usual characters, the show featured a talking towel playing Jameserrico. Instead of the usual, witty plot, the show was totally stupid and the plot was centered entirely on a struggle between the towel and Oprah Winfrey’s private parts. As often occurs in the show, a female voice interjected “this show is completely gay!” only the voice was that of Mrs. Xrlq, not any of the characters in the show. Then the TV was eaten by a giant woman of Asian complexion, who looked a lot like Michelle Malkin and bellowed “See why I hate being called a South Park Conservative? That show is completely gay! Brian Anderson, you go to hell! You go to hell and you die!” I woke up in a cold sweat, and suddenly it hit me: it was midnight, I had slept through South Park, and I still wasn’t getting a good night’s sleep. Dammit. [Yes, Fatass, we are allowed to curse in the Bear Flag League.]
• The next morning, just before the alarm went off, I dreamt that I was in some very foreign country called Ooga-Booga-Land, where everyone spoke some strange language that just happened to be perfectly comprehensible, sounding like ordinary English with an Ooga-Booga accent. The Ooga-Boogans welcomed me into their town as a guest, and offered me a plate of the local specialty, which consisted of fried, salted maggots. I gagged and said “I’m sorry, I can’t eat this.” In response, an Ooga-Boogan asked “Why not? Too much salt?”
• The alarm went off, and I hit the snooze button. The dream appeared to pick up where it left off, with the Ooga-Boogans whisking away that disgusting dish, and I had mashed potatoes for lunch instead. When I’d finished eating, they handed me a laptop with WiFi, which worked remarkably well for a remote location in deepest, darkest Africa (or wherever the hell Ooga-Booga Land was, as I never got to see it on a map), with no power outlets for miles around. I headed on over to one of my favorite web sites, Glennerico’s Groovy Insights. The proprietors of the site, Glenn Frey and his sister Amber, had just exposed some knucklehead journalist at the Compton Chronicle who was lying through his teeth, pretending to be multiple people, and falsely accusing his opponents of everything under the sun while using a pseudonym. In response, the Chronicle suspended the knucklead in question for using a pseudonym. The alarm went off again, and I dragged myself out of bed and headed off to work, wondering what on earth the first half of this dream could have had to do with the second. Probably nothing, just one of those random dreams that jumps around randomly from subject to subject, I s’pose.
• Last night I dreamt that the sensitivity police paid me a visit. They chastised me for repeatedly using the word “gay” as if it were a synonym for “bad,” a habit I was supposed to have outgrown upon graduation from junior high. I was tried, convicted and sent off to tolerance camp.