As I was in the wave a silver coffee table appeared before me and I used it as a kind of surfboard. Holding onto the little side drawer handles I was able to straighten myself out and figure out where I was. I was surfing through the middle of the Da Kine Bail Bonds office, but it wasn’t the office. It was huge, it had rows and rows of cubicles and copiers and water coolers. I just kept on passing by them all like I was in any number of buildings portrayed on the Flintstones. The houses in that show were massive. By my estimates, Barney’s house alone must have been at least 10,000 square feet. And believe me, I have estimates. I’ve also got a whole binder full of notes detailing the homoerotic behavior between Fred & Barney, Fred as a Marxist vs. the capitalist overlord Mr. Slate and how every episode starring the Great Kazoo makes no fucking sense. Hey, here’s a joke for you, what do you get when you blow up Barney Rubble? Barney Rubble. Hah, man I can’t explain where they come from folks, I’m just blessed.
"Tonight, on a very special Rock Scene Investigator..."
Anyway, back to the dream. I just kept surfing this silver coffee table through the office scene when I run full tilt into a bulletin board. But not just any bulletin board, this board was full of obituaries clipped from the newspaper and the biggest one of all was mine. It was written in something like 48 font size or something because it was huge but really short. All it said was “Duane Chapman, died today at age 58. He loved bubble wrap. He will be missed.” Kind of a strange obituary if you ask me but they got me dead on, any kind of parcel arrives here and I could care less what it is as long as it’s covered in bubble wrap. The popping sounds just take me back to a time when wrapping plastic around your face was not only something children liked to do, it was encouraged by their authorities, well, my authorities at least.
When I woke up I was pretty embarrassed. Turns out I had slept-walked into the living room and pissed all over the coffee table. I guess that serves me right for having a peach iced tea drinking contest with Youngblood at 11:00 in the evening. Looks like I won the contest though, all I did was destroy some furniture whereas Youngblood’s bladder burst, haha sissy boy can’t handle a wittle drinky poo.
“Snapple” is the sound Youngblood’s new fiberglass bladder makes
I was so concerned about my death dream that I decided to ask Beth about it. After I put the cat on the coffee table and fake yelled at it for peeing all over it. Once Beth kicked the cat a few times she was willing to listen to my dream. She thought it’d be a good idea to visit one of those dream analyst people so they can tell me what’s the dilly-o. On the way over there she put in her Michael Jackson cd. She said, “you know, if you get past the whole child molestation thing, the guy was still a great performer”. I was so shocked my Hawaiian Punch I was drinking came right out of my nose and all over the windshield like the Kool-Aid man had just blown his brains out in the car or something. That’s like saying about John Wayne Gacy “You know, if you put aside the whole raping and killing 33 boys thing, the guy could still make an unbelievable pot roast”.
The dream analyst we went to was Craig Webb. He’s also an author and wicked at Pictionary I hear. I wasn’t too sure about trusting someone who graduated from a Montreal University, you never can be too sure about those Mexicans folks. After reading the praise by other people they had written on the walls of his office in construction paper, I was a believer. Just listen to these testimonials:
“Craig is a bright, shining guide in my life.”
-Kaya Wittenburg, author, TV celebrity/host, winner of FOX TV’s original Temptation Island.
Temptation Island! Wow! Remember that show? Neither do I.
“You are the greatest! Yes, it all makes sense. Your comments about the dream are so well appreciated...you are a master in that field and so I will take it to heart.”
–Brother Rolph Fernandez, 30-year Franciscan Monk
Good for you Brother. I’m glad after 30 years of solitude and prayer it required a book on dreams that you could’ve read while taking a dump for you to make sense of your life.
"It was great to be able to meet you. The session gave me some insight on things and I thank you very much. You can share this with others if you like.”
–Wendy
I was still on the fence with the others but if Wendy says you’re credible then who am I to argue.
"Hurry up and take the picture I gotta get this suit back to Value Village by five"
Once inside Craig’s office I told him about my surfing/pissing dream and he said the coffee table as a surfboard represented my desire to escape the mediocrity in life and that could be a reason why I act out like I do and dress like John Wayne if he was into S&M. I wasn’t too pleased with this remark and I told him so. He told me that by telling him so I was fulfilling my need to make others around me feel small. He said this could be because I’m actually quite short in real life and rely on cowboy boots to rise above everyone else. He said my cowboy boots, as ‘bitchin’ as I think they are, are really a crutch and the first step towards self realization would be to take them off and burn them. That’s when I asked him if he could do me a favor and fulfill my need to stick my foot up his ass because these boots are pure crocodile and burning them would be like burning my own feet. Which it would be if they were set ‘a fire while I was wearing them but you probably wouldn’t do that in the first place but I was trying to get a point across and I think I did. Craig Webb is a colon worm, there, that was easier. The next time I think I’m going to have a messed up dream I think I’ll do what everyone else does, drink so much before going to bed I can’t remember anything.
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