Nocturnal E-missions

We all know that nothing is less interesting than hearing a long winded, rambling recollection of someone else’s dreams. Even an hour of George Lopez’s comedy routine is more bearable than listening to the half-forgotten nonsense that splashes out of your best friend’s unconscious mind like so much toilet water.

With that said, I had the weirdest dream last night…

            I was lost inside the Temple of Doom, of Indiana Jones fame, except that it had been converted into a shopping mall. The cultish tribesmen from the film were there, but had given up their turbans in exchange for mall security outfits, and they were chasing me because I’d taken a shower in the decorative fountain (the planners shouldn’t have put the damn thing right in front of a Bath and Body Works). Luckily, my wizarding skills are keen in the dreamscape, and I was able to conjure up some clothes before being pursued through the dank caverns by a pack of angry ritualists. I jogged past store after store, decorated in the Flintstones motif, until I’d finally lost my pursuers.

            I decided that some Cinnabon sounded pretty tasty and punched the button for the food court elevator. But, the doors opened into the bottom of the deep-end of my high-school swimming pool. I was sucked inside and, just like I’d always pictured during all those hours of practice, a giant, cigar-smoking shark was swimming in the water too. I yelled in a string of bubbles and swam as fast as I could, but the surface wasn’t anywhere in sight. The pool had grown to the size of an ocean. The shark got closer, turned into a torpedo, and exploded. When I blinked my eyes I was standing, perfectly dry, inside my formerly local comic-book shop. All the regular owners had been replaced by the Temple of Doom guys again, and even though they’d probably torn the hearts out of my old geeky pals, at least they seemed to have forgotten about the whole indecent exposure thing. We drank beer and played darts.

           

            There were no boobs or gratuitous nudity, so, if you’ve read this far, I don’t know what else to say. Sorry?

Beer: Three Floyd’s Gumballhead

Music: Buckcherry

-brandon

                                        (On anyone but you, Indy, that is a fucking man-purse)

                                                  (You shall never again defile mall property, infidel!)