Life is but a dream
Had some weird-ass dreams last night. I was in this hilly graveyard in the crepuscular netherworld where I often go in dreams. It was more like the Hubert Eaton model of memorial park with no Victorian gothic headstones, just flat boring markers on the ground. There were a lot of half-asleep people like me stumbling around like we’d had too much to drink, and we were mixing it up with the animated dead, who’d also had too much embalming fluid to drink and didn’t like the formaldehyde buzz or something. There were a bunch of fat coppers in blue 1920s copper uniforms rolling a fat man around trying to wake him up, and one of the more rotting corpses was laughing so hard and going “Dudes, he’s like so totally dead,” and his fits of laughter shook his rotting arm, the finger end which was pointing at the cops, out of the socket, before the arm fell on the ground and was chewed by squirrels.
Later, I was in an older section of the cemetery with some other people and corpses, looking at a small family-style granite mausoleum with a big oak branch that had fallen on the once-peaked roof to reveal two cars, a new-design retro Camaro and a 1960 Bel Air sedan, smashed up by the roof and the branch. Someone accused me of bringing down the branch on the mausoleum using my psychic powers, and I argued back: “No way, Jose. I’m a Mopar man. I don’t even like Chevys enough to bother calling attention to them by messing them up. Let Chevrolet stay dead and buried, unless they can come up with another Nomad. Or at least a decent-looking Corvette.”
Later, I was a contestant on Jeopardy with a couple of those furry Muppets. At one point, I’d picked the category “Celebrity Sluts.” So Alex Trebek says, “The swarthy Gabor sisters,” and I answered without even wasting a beat: “What is a colostomy bag of tricks?” Then the whole place went off like a psychedelic jackpot in the Mescalito Tribe Casino, the one out there on Route 666 in New Mexico south of Farmington where the saucers patrol from the secret base under the Four Corners, and I was on a magic carpet. A magic carpet riding into a vividly kaleidoscopic sunset between two stratus clouds, or maybe they were lenticulars, that fit together just like vaginal lips whose opening revealed the starry expanse beyond. Oeu-hoooo!
Sometimes my dreams are just too stupidly weird. —Jackson Griffith