Dreams (That Makes This The 1,456,991st Blog Post On The Internet To Be Titled "Dreams"!! Happy To Help.)

My dreams are usually soulcrushingly horrid affairs. If we're hanging out together, and I tell you that I'm feeling kind've sleepy and might have to be hitting the hay... just smash me in the back of the head with one of those oversized cartoon mallets, I'm begging you. It would spare me from centipedes that split like cells and scurry with supernatural speed up my pants legs. It would hopefully forestall yet another dream involving unspeakable terrors like snakes, hornets or final exams I haven't studied for. And all while naked and being laughed at, let's not forget that. Use the mallet, please, and consign me instead to a dreamless concussive state, or preferably, death.

When I was a child I did have one great dream, which of course began as a nightmare. I was thrown off the Empire State Building. I panicked, screaming, but then came up with a plan that I would later attempt to replicate when awake but with far less success. I looked down at my buttoned shirt, and just like Clark Kent I tore open my shirt at the chest to (hopefully... please God...) reveal that I was in fact SUPERBOY (at right, attempting to super-humanly poop standing up)!!! The famous Super-costume was hidden underneath my clothes the entire time. I then extended my arms in classic flying position, pulled out of my dive and whooshed between the buildings of Metropolis/New York, triumphantly looping and whizzing over the city. I love this dream. I love it even more than the only wet dream I ever had where I was given a hand job by a pretty mulatto girl in a movie theater. Oversharing? Right, moving on.

The Superboy dream is by far the exception to my torture-plagued slumbers. So last night when I actually had an enjoyable experience, I woke and wrote down the two things that I remembered:

1. Lisa Innuendo. There was a woman in the dream who I found very attractive. She had a playfulness mixed with intelligence in her eyes, long, light-brown hair and gave the impression that she was madly, deeply, passionately in love with the real me.

Plus? Boobies.

Her name in the dream was (cue Freud!): Lisa Innuendo. Even my subconscious is freakin' hilarious, when it isn't biting me with poisonous snakes.

For grins, I Googled it (Lisa Innuendo) and while I was hoping for porn (as I am when I Google anything) the first web site that comes up is for Maura Tierney. Now there are many famous women who I think are beautiful, but far, far fewer that I find personally attractive. I have had imaginary flings before (Madonna, in the Papa Don't Preach video) and imaginary girlfriends (Sheena Easton in the 80's). But Maura Tierney is the only woman on Earth that has actually compelled me to get down on one imaginary knee and propose. I'll just go ahead and end the suspense: she said yes.

Maura Tierney is my imaginary fiance, and how "Lisa Innuendo" ever could have come up in a dream and be the search code-words for Maura Tierney freaks me the hell out. Someday she and I will laugh about the whole thing when she becomes my imaginary wife, though she better set a date as she's not getting any younger. Just kidding. You know I love ya, baby.

2. Flight 63. Later in my dream, after the boobies, I was in a foggy city, and I saw a plane going down just above me. On the side of the plane I could see the number "63". It crashed a half a block away from me, and I rushed over to see if I could help. By the time I got there the plane had turned into a Nascar (this being a dream and all) and it was broken up pretty badly, but all of the passengers were completely unhurt. Later, I put the car back together with my mind and drove down narrow streets at two hundred miles an hour. This was far more rad than the centipedes, so I remembered the flight number when I woke up. Then I Googled it.

Flight 63 is the 9/11 jet that lived. It didn't actually happen on 9/11, but it was part of the same al-Qaeda plot. Flight 63 was the Richard Reid* shoebomber flight. That plane came as close as you can to being blown out of the sky, but there wasn't a single casualty.

If you had asked me what the flight number of that jet was before that dream, I could never have told you. I'd probably heard it in passing on some news program at the time, I don't know. I do know that when that web page came up I got chills.

I'm now kind've hoping the centipedes come back, but the mallet is still Plan A.


Footnote:

* Richard Reid looks like an utter tool. Say what you want about the other hijackers, at least they completed the missions they were assigned. This dumbshit couldn't even light a match. Gaze upon the face of failure...

Osama better start holding some recruitment drives a.s.a.p. Not even The Riddler would hire this guy as a henchman.