Tag Archives: dreams

Holy holy hannah

My waking life is much more satisfying than my dream life. But this might only be due to the poor quality of my dreams lately. Last night I dreamed about eating a bowl of cereal. This took about a million years. It was Grape Nuts! I don’t even eat cereal. So tedious. Take a bite, and then another bite, and if one is having fruit along with the cereal, one must worry about ratios and golden rectangles and cosines. It is too much.

But sometimes the universe just tosses a delectable bon-bon right into my mouth, Jolene. No, more like an everlasting gobstopper. People humiliate themselves without me lifting a finger. I complain, and the problems solve themselves. My lips to God’s ear. God said to have Kraft dinner again today, but I told God this would be directly contradicting Jessica Simpson. We have struck a solid bargain with tuna right out of the can and a martini. I’m kidding about the martini, Lord. I don’t drink until Happy Hour, and that is not now.


Dear Ask the Internet*:

A friend keeps sending photos of her child. Her child looks crosseyed. Should I ask what the hell his problem is? I really wonder. You’d think he would have grown out of it by now.

Signed, an Observant Jerk

Dear Jerk:

Sorry, Google doesn’t know enough about what is wrong with your friend’s kid yet.

Yours, the Internet

Tomorrow: Find out what the internet thinks that stuff stuck in your keyboard is.

*Snaps to Lisa, who also likes to tell people what is wrong with them.

Where do bad folks go when they die?

Still in the future here. Looking good, looking good. Cars don’t fly, but all the highways are underground now. Also, I live in Canada. Did I ever tell you that story about moving to Canada? It was way back in ought-seven, and I sneaked over the border after killing a trucker. I had to survive the first few cold nights inside an elk carcass. I eventually got a job sewing fake Kenneth Cole shoes.

Oh. None of this ever happened, you say? That’s too bad. I always have super vivid dreams, and sometimes I’ll think of some piece of a dream and have to remind myself “Naw, you did not really push that person into a volcano.” It’s a bummer.

These days I have this new thing where I do whatever I want as it occurs to me. It’s going well so far. My wants are few. Today I wanted chocolate chip cookies, so I bought some. I’m also enrolling in off-shore medical school. My experience in the ER proved without a shadow of a doubt that I have the right stuff to be a doctor. Yes, follow my finger. I diagnosed the child in the next room with a case of poor lineage, and I gave myself a skull and crossbones tattoo with Betadine. I also diagnosed several people in the waiting room with obesity.

What snoo, what snot

Man it is such as crazy to have the dreams that I have sometimes when I dream. The other night I watched the Superbowl, er, sorry, “big game,” but it was played by cats. Cats wearing adorable little leather football helmets. And omg last night Australia was in the wrong place. It was sort of between Africa and India. And that is not where Australia really goes, but I flew over it on my way to India. Hello, hello Australia! You might not want to sit in the front of the vehickle, as we will be heading down this steep track, and it is made of rickety wooden rails. Also I dream (a’lot) about confusing the gas pedal and the brake pedal. Peddle. Petal.

Internet, you had best stop reading things you find in the computer. They make no sense! Only look for pictures of Lindsay Lohan appearing skeletal. Dear New York Times Ombudsman: I have a good article for you to make. It is called “Blogs Suck; Go Outside.” But you will probably just run another article about how knitting is great, and people like to buy real estate. If you need a list of other things to cover, heah I am.

Never have I been so glad to live in a time where I can just “dial up” the computer and find out that a woman might not like the haircut she has received. And maybe she got her period on her birthday. Them’s the breaks. Brakes. And this guy, maybe this guy he had thoughts about Star Wars. I bet he did, that guy. Someone else has a dog. That’s good, we need more of that. I like dogs. “Blogs” should be written only from the perspective of housepets. My cat says “I am so gay 4 these new brewer’s yeast and garlic treats ugly no-tail mommy got me.” Tale.


Lambchop is on strike until she gets a snarky set of lips (or similar) to appear wherever wisdom and poetry fribble from her fain mouth!
Come through, ye gods, with a sticky pawprint for yours truly.

It is matters of gross importance such as this, that consume me as i endure Upper Management training here at the Box Factory. Learning how to sandwich sheaves of yellowed forms into a bulging and creaking drawer so that they can safely be ignored until this whole place goes up in flames, is a vain and tedious pursuit. Five more minutes of this and I will be forced to drill holes in my skull to aerate my brain pan.

Unlike me, I hope you lucky layabouts are all out shooting morphine and diving to the pavement in horrible flashbacks every time a car door slams. After all, its Veteran’s Day, celebrate!

Lunch today is on the Vet,

wonder what we’re gonna get?

Purple Heart Pizza or Missing-Leg Pie,



Oh, the Training is about to move on to proper placement of Staples and Other Perforations. My heart weeps. I dream of leaping stallions and roan colored mares galloping through fields.


What a cut-up

This morning I awoke from a bizarre Tylenol PM-fueled dream that I was a spectator at a reality TV show featuring celebrity amputations. There was a glossy multi-tiered set, a cheering crowd, a dapper host (Ryan Seacrest?). I woke up, groggy and rubbing my eyes, not sure if I dreamed that or not. The name of the show escapes me, but I know it was something incredibly twee, like “Cut It Out!” Come to think of it, they should have gotten Dave Coulier.

The celebrities were pleased to be featured, and they were trotted out and an extraneous extremity was pruned with the benefit of local anesthetic, their choice of machete or mini guillotine. White uniformed medical professionals were in attendance, overseeing everything very seriously. The amputations had little catch phrases depending on the part in question. Jennifer Anniston got all the toes on one foot off; that one was called “The Footsie Tootsie.”

It all started getting hazy after something went awry with the severing of Jim J. Bullock’s forearm from the rest of him. A hazard of live TV I guess. Paramedics came, and then suddenly I realized the set was in the middle of a giant Pier 1. And Kirstie Alley was there, trying to sell me some fake sea grass. Arghhhhhhhhhh!

Can someone please tell me why there are C-list stars in my dreams? I am never taking Tylenol PM again, even if I stay up for 3 days. I’ve worked 7 days straight, looking at another 5. My marbles are rolling around in my head, all loosey goosey like.