I had a dream last night. I woke up in the middle of it and it was so good that I actually got myself back to sleep to finish. Unfortunately, the dream was not about my gorgeous wife, or a suitable replacement like Pamela Anderson or Angelina Jolie: it was about George Bush. This in itself is a disturbing statement either about my age (57) or the state of my subconscious mind (At least I thought I was okay).
It gets better after the fold.
So here I am in an auditorium that looks like any auditorium in any high school in the country. But this one also looked a lot like the movie theater in the town I grew up in. There are two figures on the stage: someone that is never identified on stage left, and our fearless leader George Dubya, the Shrub, stage right.
No matter what is happening on stage left, Dubya is wallowing in a big mud pit. He is rolling in it, scooping it, thowing it up in the air, rubbing it all over himself. He is wearing a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up (so as Brownie was so eloquently intsructed by one of his underlings, he looks busy), a tie and is sans suit coat. He is competely sepia, and he appears to be either incredibly happy or completely off his rocker. He is shouting with glee as he throws mud and as he wallows. Anytime something is said, (and I never hear any words coming from stage left), George just hollers and throws and looks ecstatic and whatever he is saying is incomprehensible.
At this point, I leap from my chair about three rows from the stage and directly in front of Der Prez'nit and start screaming at him that he is a disgrace, a liar, an incompetent (God, I wish I could remember the specifics of this speech, I was fucking awesome), and that for the good of the country he needed to go where he obviously wished he was...the ol' ranch in Crawford and just leave the rest of us the fuck alone. Then, maybe we could restore our reputation.
In the middle of my wonderful, inspiring, detailed indictment of Bush and his cronies, and an achingly beautiful description of how life should be without Dubya (none of which I can exactly remember as I write this) another member of the audience stood up and declared to the rest of us in attendance that it was now time for us to vote on what was happening before us on stage. The audience roared its approval and magically ballots appeared and people starting voting (no idea what was on the ballot).
Then, out of the blue a Bush crony ran onto the stage loudly proclaiming that Macadmaia nuts and Lobster actually come from France and then proceeded to pass out some other kind of ballot saying that this was the real issue that we needed to face for the security of the country.
I looked down at the ballot, and I saw the words Macadamia nuts and Lobsters. But I crumpled up the ballot and threw it at the mud covered Bush and started rythmically yelling "Throw It Back, Throw It Back, ......"
As little wadded up ballots started flying over my head at Muddy George, I awoke laughing. Three hours later I'm still happy. I quickly awakened my wife and, (remember 57 years old), many many...many minutes later, she was happy and I was ready to go back to sleep. She really is better than Pam or Angelina.