Wednesday, March 01, 2006
REM Insanity
Ever had a truely odd dream?
Here's one for you...
I had a dream last night that I was in England. I danced with the Queen, who had horrible breath, before she sent me on a secret mission to save the royal family. Next, I did quite a bit of driving about at high speeds in a Lotus Elise. As I drove, I snacked on edam cheese and crackers. Arriving at a castle, I proceeded inside the gate with a seductively dressed Sandra Bullock in tow. In the courtyard, I took out several beefeaters with a Thompson submachine gun. Once inside, I played a Bach partita on the reversed black and white keys of an ancient harpsichord, which caused a secret door in the floor to open. Descending, I shot some more beefeaters and then fought an epic sword battle with Osama binLaden before rescuing the Dauphin of France from the dastardly clutches of that horrible new spokesman for Tanqueray Gin (name unknown, but I recognized him by the appalling gap in his front teeth). As Sandra, the Dauphin, and I sped away in the Elise, I laughed heartily about my victory before plowing down Tony Blair in the parking lot outside. He did a number on the beautiful Elise's front bumper as he crumpled beneath it, so I sent a bill to his mum.
Tell me, readers of mine, what does my dream mean?
Here's one for you...
I had a dream last night that I was in England. I danced with the Queen, who had horrible breath, before she sent me on a secret mission to save the royal family. Next, I did quite a bit of driving about at high speeds in a Lotus Elise. As I drove, I snacked on edam cheese and crackers. Arriving at a castle, I proceeded inside the gate with a seductively dressed Sandra Bullock in tow. In the courtyard, I took out several beefeaters with a Thompson submachine gun. Once inside, I played a Bach partita on the reversed black and white keys of an ancient harpsichord, which caused a secret door in the floor to open. Descending, I shot some more beefeaters and then fought an epic sword battle with Osama binLaden before rescuing the Dauphin of France from the dastardly clutches of that horrible new spokesman for Tanqueray Gin (name unknown, but I recognized him by the appalling gap in his front teeth). As Sandra, the Dauphin, and I sped away in the Elise, I laughed heartily about my victory before plowing down Tony Blair in the parking lot outside. He did a number on the beautiful Elise's front bumper as he crumpled beneath it, so I sent a bill to his mum.
Tell me, readers of mine, what does my dream mean?