I've got dreams, dreams to remember...

Screw my dreams lately. Last night's was strait fuct. None of it made sense. Not one damn element. See, I had to leave work early, because the building was on fire. So I'm sitting in my truck at the Taco Bell drive-thru trying to order a box of sixty-four crayons (with the sharpener in the back) when my cell phone rings. On the other end of the line, my wife asks me when the hell I'm going to be home, because she needs my help to turn on a light. No sooner do I open my mouth to reply then my truck's engine blows. It is now a dull roar drowning out my sweet wife's lovely voice. Actually, perhaps the obscenities I was screaming were what drowned her out. Either way, I quickly get off the phone with her, because I need one hand to drive, and the other to drink the Guiness that has magically appeared in my lap. I blow off ever trying to get any crayons from the idiots at Taco Bell and pull out on to the main road, trying not to spill my beer. I have driven about four feet and had in excess of two sips of beer when my dream drunk buzz kicks in. Suddenly, all the headlights of oncoming cars are blazing past me like they were filmed in time-lapse, and for some reason the once straight road now hairpins like a bad videogame. I manage to stay on the twisting road for about another twelve feet, until my dream drunk shifts into dream shitfaced, and I slide off into a ditch. After I get my broken-down truck stopped, my first thought is that someone will soon pull over to help me, but will then notice my Guiness and call the cops. So I wing that bad boy out the window into passing traffic. It is dashed to flinders on the grill of wide Chevy. Yet as soon as the beer leaves my hand, the intoxication fades, and I notice that I can just drive right out of the ditch and back on to the road (which is now arrow-straight). I barely make it out of the ditch and on to the road before I have to slam on the brakes to avoid rear-ending the Chevy that killed my beer. The driver is pretty worked up about it, and he gets out of the passenger side of his car and runs at my truck. Now, with dream logic running full steam, my truck suddenly has no windshield or upper cab (like an old army jeep). Homeslice whips out a can of what I first think is mace, and begins spraying it at me. Instead of a liquid spray, it seems to be a weird mix of silly string and expanding foam. It takes me about half a second to realize that it isn't burning my eyes or skin the way mace should. Then the foam starts electrocuting me tazer-style...
I awoke to the sounds of a storm breaking outside. I rolled over and spooned my wife and considered not drinking a Black&Tan that close to bedtime again.
Oh, and for the record, I never eat at Taco Bell for "personal" reasons. And I have never owned a cell phone.

Coming soon, my Gary Busey dream.
~