On Dreams, Pt. VI - Seriously, I Must Need To Deal With Some Emotional Issues Or Something

You know, I don't mind that when I get drunk I dream about my grandmother's house being home to a sorority of diverse young women, the uptight Christian of whom ends up murdering the fat black girl from Precious for some insipid reason and then making it look like a suicide, causing all the girls to freak out as my mother and I attempt to solve the crime and I have to call 911 to report the murder without divulging that I don't go to the same college while avoiding the operator's stalling questions about how the girls in Iona are treating me. Not at all.

I'm more worried that

A) all of these little disturbing details can easily be explained from the last maybe three days of my life (and not in a weird way), and

B) I am somehow aware this is at least the second dream-corpse I've had to call dream-911 to dream-report.

On Drunkenness

"I wish Twitter was a different place from twitter so that I could tell you again how drunk I am."

- The sign of a good night.

On FIFA & World Cup Soccer

Thoughts on the World Cup, Soccer, and Football in General:

• I never knew "My Country 'tis of Thee" stole its melody from "God Save the Queen."
• Asking whether the U.S. or England is the 'white' team feels like if I get it wrong someone is going to steal my land.
• Everything Americans hate about futból–i.e. low scoring, simple rules–is the exact opposite of what is wrong with basketball.
• We were pretty big douches to name another sport "football" despite a dearth of kicking. Did we just say, "Nope, we're using that. Sorry?"
• Apparently when a team wins the World Cup, they get a gold-plated replica, but FIFA keeps the actual cup, which some dude says can't possibly be solid gold like they say. Baller.
• Every promo commercial sounds like it was narrated by Morgan Freeman.
• When the British announcer said "Bocanegra" it does not sound like "Bocanegra."
• Ties are stupid, but I'll take it over losing.
  

Of Anal Sex

Dear Universe, please don't let my mother read this entry. Oymen.

It occurs to me that all girls should be having anal sex.

My reasoning:

1. Girls have anuses.
2. Girls do not poop.
3. Anuses must biologically do something.

Therefor, if it's not for things going out, it must be for things going in.

(Girl) Jo: DAVE, ALL GIRLS LOVE ANAL!
Me: I KNOW BUT I PROVED IT WITH SCIENCE!

"Science: It proves things. Like butts."

On Driver's Ed

I had dinner with my father and two younger half-brothers last night, mostly just because it's Wednesday, but retroactively I'm saying it was also in celebration of the older brother retaking his road test tomorrow and likely getting a license to operate multi-ton steal monstrosities.

That was the plan, anyway. He drove very well today, taking my father to an optometrist's appointment, but when it came time to drive his friend home with my dad in the passenger's seat, he kind of sort of mistook the gas for the break and plowed directly into the giant shed that houses all their lawn equipment. (Thankfully he missed both the Subaru beyond the shed. More thankfully, our father had to sell the Porsche Boxer he originally bought the shed to house.)

Is it "odd" that I had a somewhat psychic moment and chose to not go along for the ride? Not at all. Frankly, that kind of stuff happens all the time. I was quite comfortable hearing the medium-sized crunch from inside and coming out to view the spectacular damage.

I did my best to diffuse the situation and provide brotherly support where needed, and once dad left with my brother and his friend in his car, I did the courtesy of unjamming the worst of the more badly beaten shed door, prying off some hanging molding and stacking it neatly.

Our father handled it very well, actually. His wife, on the other hand, well, we're all hoping that she'll be too tired from working a double shift at the hospital to notice when she gets home. Then my brother can hopefully pass his damned road test and actually have a license before she takes it away.


Side note: As I was leaving, I was pointing out to my father what could be done and salvaged from the shed face when a blood curdling squeal came from the side of the house. A bat, I thought? No, too big. Some large rodent was clearly very distressed and in a great deal of pain, and then an adorable fluffy bunny hopped out of the bushes and ran off, twice, as his friend lay bleating unmercifully. Creepy to hear, creepier when it suddenly stopped. It shut up entirely when I approached close enough to save whatever it was, and I felt truly horrible. I avoided stopping at a gas station on the way home for fear of encountering a third evil this night.

On Zombies, Always With the Zombies

 
Seriously, I need to stop trying to dream about zombies. Last night was nothing but running through an infected dorm and by the time I got to a safe attic it was just some fat guy and two toddlers, one who was infected and bit me and I had to wash my arm off with mint mouthwash and I FUCKING HATE MINT.

"Zombies are just hungry nihilists."

Aside from being an epic name for the screamo masterpiece my prog-rock band is going to release after our album entirely about SNL Celebrity Jeopardy jokes, this is actually a pretty good point.

Nihilists believe in the futility of existence, if you can even call that a belief since I'm also somehow sure they refuse to believe in anything. But what could a nihilist value? Ostensibly, knowledge, as the one useful tool to advance oneself in life until he dies, staving off that final black end as long as possible in an admittedly doomed effort, or as the one thing a man can truly hold as his own without fear of theft by anything short of that same abyssal death.

And what do zombies say, when the say anything at all?

"Brains…."

Of course most modern zombies don't actually say much of anything, and they're pretty indiscriminate in what parts of you they will eat. Surprisingly, they seem to be fond of entrails and left arms, in particular. I'm not sure why the left. probably has something to do with the heart being on the left and Americans' high-cholesterol diet.

However beyond this, there isn't some great existential need for zombies seeking brains. They are the ultimate nihilists, empty shells of creatures, devoid of souls or humanity, truly everything but their basest animal instincts, cannibalizing unnatural monstrosities feeding with all the intelligence and purpose of locusts, refusing death itself but in doing so are robbed of any value or meaning.

But they're still fucking hungry.

Might put a little hole in the dark hearts of nihilists out there, but hey, I make enemies like Apple's Chinese Foxconn workers make intricate LCD screens with "Retina" displays by the dozen.

You know, they kill themselves.

And become zombies.

(There are no OSHA standards for the undead. Also, Chinese.)

On Dreams Pt. V: Revenge of the Dreamening (Based on the Song "Running with Chicken Based on the Movie Precious Based on the Novel "Push" by Sapphire)

Last night I dreamnt that I was in the movie Precious, except instead of just being incredibly fat and abused by her parents she was some kind of mutant with a turtle shell on her back (and running from her parents).

She ran across the entire world, hiding in a Japanese children's prison colony, in which I finally entered the story as a character, albeit as a member of a Japanese "Girl Gang" (they have them there) as we chased Turtle-Precious with rolling pins.

I felt conflicted. I didn't want to hit Precious on her shell with a rolling pin, but she was getting slower. Hey, she was still pretty fat. I ended up saving her by throwing away my pin and blocking the gang leader's path, shouting at Precious to go. I wanted to make some kind of impassioned speech, but I knew my audience was violent, undereducated Japanese gang members. "Hey. Fuck. This," I said.

It seemed to work. A bunch of the other girls were clearly tired of living in a self-terrorized feudal community. They threw away there pins as well and we walked off calmly to a new beginning, all the girls around me.

Then the leader put me in a full-Nelson. I put my hands over my throat, fully anticipating to have it slit, but instead her Number Two came over with a razor blade and told me I had to have me chest and belly cut for betraying the group.

Man. Fuck. That.