No, this isn't a reprise of the old Simon and Garfunkel protest tune. Yech.
This is an actual dream I had, or maybe it was a vision.
Anyway when I got up this morning I wrote it all down while it was still fresh.
So picture this:
Several hundred monkeys are chained to bicycle pumps which are connected, via their genitals, to a huge, white, inflatable pavilion on a beautiful green meadow. Monkeys are pumping furiously - and glancing around inquisitively (as monkeys are wont to do).
Nothing too weird so far.
Inside the pavilion there is a large crowd eagerly awaiting the choice morsels that spill from the maw of the former Delphic Oracle the wizened Prophet of Boom, Alan Greenspan.
An awed hush falls on the crowd: the only sound is the squeaking of the monkeys pumping outside...which is actually quite loud.
The hallowed old geezer shuffles wearily to the podium, grasps it with both hands, wrinkles his brow, raises a forefinger and says:
"How could we have known?" No, he doesn't say it, he bellows: for 2 seconds his hacksaw-baritone monosyllables hang in the artificial air with the quee-quee-quee of the monkey orchestra highlighting his urgent inquiry.
Then, suddenly and as if on cue, horse-laughs erupt volcanically from throughout the crowd. Pandy Monium, and it goes on for some time, like a spontaneous outbreak at an asylum. Some people begin wiping tears away when they get done convulsing.
Greenspan waves his hands to quiet the ruckas down.
"Seriously, please, ladies and gentle..." then, "er, excuse me," as an aide approaches him and whispers are exchanged.
Greenspan: "...ah, Ladies and Gentlemen, let me leave you with that thought: 'How could we have known?' Thank you." At that point the 40% 30% 20% 10% of the crowd that hadn't been laughing started limply applauding, glancing over their shoulders.
Whereupon the Sage One abruptly leaves all his papers on the podium and hightails it to a waiting limo; his aides and Andrea Mitchell are in tow and gasping for air.
As they pass the feverishly pumping monkeys, the Unseen Hand and the aide he was whispering with cast a wary pair of glances at one of the monkeys who is in the process of dealing with an itch that has become more compelling than the masturbatory marathon he's been engaged in.
He lets go the pump handle and itches his right buttock, staring off distractedly, as monkeys and American citizens are wont to do. There's a high-pitched hissing sound coming out of the pump.
Several monkeys nearby (and this is the unfortunate part) spot the renegade butt-scratcher en flagrante gluteus, and thereupon decide to get some for themselves.
How doubly unfortunate!
I don't have to go into detail at this point, I hope.
So it was that the selfishness of the monkeys suffocated over a thousand innocent stock brokers and securities traders in my mildly sardonic dream. I don't know how I stayed asleep for the whole tragic calamity, it was so engrossing.
But fortunately I did, because then, to top off an already great epiphany:
Greenspan's limo gets pulled over for an out-of-date inspection sticker; the cop, a black woman, pulls Ayn's Disciple out of the back seat (where he is working on his 4th Manhattan already) tases him, cuffs him and calls for backup, while her yuppie-looking partner makes everyone in the car get out and lay down on the ground - including Andrea Mitchell - and then he makes them all sing "The Hootchy-Kootchie Song" and go through the movements laying on their stomachs in the dirt. When they get to the part that goes "you do the hootchie kootchie and you turn yourself around..." he makes them spin on their bellies.
(Man, Andrea's gown was a mess. At least he didn't make them do it with handcuffs on.)
Then, there is scuffling back on the other side of the limo:
"But officer," Alan says through the side of his mouth and from under the sole of the cop's left combat boot, "what are you charging me with, if you don't mind the interlocution, young lady. And by the way, I will need to take down your badge nummmmhunnnh!"
And the cop says, calmly: "If I were as ugly as you are, sir, I would put a sock in it," whereupon she puts down her weapon, flips Uncle Alan onto his stomach, puts her knee in the middle of his back, and starts to take off one of his Guccis...
When I realized she wasn't intent on tickling his foot, I forced myself awake.
Boy. Dreams are crazy.