I tend to have vivid dreams that involve a handful of the same recurrent themes. I’ve never gone to therapy so I have little idea what they mean. But they can be so bizarre, it’s got to be funny to read about some of them. Here’s one I recall from a few years back. The details have grown a little fuzzy, but the gist of it is still fresh in my mind.
I went over to Oprah Winfrey’s house. It was a good-sized frame house on a cozy residential street in Chicago. We were hanging out, just having a friendly visit, as was our wont.
Oprah can be a target for all kinds of wackos because of her fame and money. While I was at her house, a couple guys broke in through the front door—standard bad guys from old-time central casting. Burly, unshaven, wearing nondescript clothes, dark jackets, knit hats. They wanted to harm my friend Oprah and me, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let that happen.
I don’t precisely remember whether it was a broomstick, a baseball bat, or another object well-suited to bludgeoning work. And bludgeon I did—I went totally medieval on those bad guys. Blows to the head, pounding the kidneys, jabbing the fleshy belly, going for the eye sockets. Hard hard hard. Eventually we fought the bad guys off, got them out of the house, locked the doors, and collapsed with relief and exhaustion.
Back on earth, Oprah’s best friend is Gayle King. You think Gayle would have Oprah’s back like I did? I’m just sayin’.
(Thanks to Sergei over at The Lowland Seed for the nutty-dream concept.)