101 Ways to Accept Payment for Stolen Money

In a big city, amidst traffic, a work crew was excavating the street. Having broke through the asphalt, they uncovered in the underlying earth what were assumed to be a number of fossilized angel skeletons.

(O hai, influence.)

Right away I could tell these weren't the remains of real angels — the skulls were oversized and exaggerated, the skeletal structure cartoonishly simple and lacking articulation — yet for reasons I couldn't fathom, everyone believed these to be genuine angel fossils.

The dream switched gears. I found myself watching a woman as she rose from a sea of blue paint. She was Hispanic/Latina and incredibly voluptuous.

(Due, in part, to silicone.)

I felt my slide whistle rising. But as the paint ran off her body, I could see she was covered in tattoos. There were tattoos running down her arms; four large tattoos on her back; several tattoos on her backside. Since I find heavily tattooed women gross, my carbonated soda went quickly flat.

What follows is fragmentary, imperfectly recalled.

I was in the hallway of a shabby motel/hotel. An oldtimer

(man, woman, don't recall which)

had accidentally dropped some cash. Some fugly punks — one of whom reminded me of Lil Wayne

— tried stealing the money. I scooped it up before they could snatch it and took off. Through the turning, twisting corridors I ran, trying to catch up to the oldtimer, to outpace the punks.

I don't recall the intervening details, but I eventually found myself inside a clean, upscale bar/restaurant. Now I was an old man. I was seated at a table, and seated with me at the table was ... Somebody™.

I was led to believe that by passing the oldtimer's money over to Somebody™, the oldtimer would get their money back in due course. As I exchanged the money, however, Somebody™ gave me a cheque in return. I then realized Somebody™ was in cahoots with the punks I'd met earlier, that he was paying me for stolen money.

(Dream logic, amirite?)

Billy Dee Williams, who was working there as a server, carrying a platter laden with hors d'oeuvres stuck with fondue forks, happened to witness this transaction. Incensed, he took the fondue forks and attacked Somebody™ and his punk cronies, stabbing them with the forks.

I recall the tattooed bimbo making a brief, unremarkable reappearance. I weighed the pros & cons of making a weiner-taco with her.

(CON: Fugly tattoos, are Fugly. PRO: Phat ass, is Phat.)

Then the dream ended.

Swing on This/Bart Simpson: Husband, Father, Neither/Cat Baby

I had a dream I was Jerry Cantrell. It was the mid '90s, and Layne Staley and I were writing a song together about hatred for neighbours.

During the writing process, we both realized we had to incorporate a famous Hollywood starlet into the song’s narrative. Charlie Sheen was there. He suggested an obscure actress from the Golden Age of Hollywood. We decided the actress had to be both young and contemporary, so we didn’t run with his suggestion. We ended up choosing Denise Richards.

I recall the first few lines of that stanza:

🎵Denise Richards lives next door to me. Looking sweet and pretty as can be.🎵

Essentially, the stanza was about the narrator realizing he hated Denise Richards 'cause she was a neighbour, too.

As we were finishing the song, Staley offered this as the closing line: “No singing, just a hum.” There was actually a bit more to the line than that, but by that point, I had run out of fresh pages in the notebook I was writing in and my OCD wouldn’t allow me to jot the line down on a page with even a minimum of writing on it. Once I finally found a clean page, I asked Staley to recite the line again, since I'd forgotten the extra bits, but he was too far into a heroin-induced delirium to care anymore.

* * *

A grown up Bart Simpson fell in love with a green-haired Allison Taylor.

After they were married and a daughter followed, wife (and possibly daughter) were murdered by gangsters and/or a fallen angel. Bart then took to the bottle pretty hard and became a drunken souse.

* * *

I had a child, a baby girl. The mother was nowhere to be found, so I gave her to some cats to nurse.

The cat milk had a mutagenic effect on the child; she developed cat-like ears and black fur over her body.

I didn’t mind having a cat-person for a daughter. I was just happy to be a father.

From the Dream Archives: Secret Kung Fu Agent Man/Glenn Frey: Hypnotist/3 is the Loneliest Number/Mad World/Reservoir Toydarians/Hissing High

(ORIGINAL ENTRY DATE: 12 JULY 2016)

I had this really wacky dream early this morning. I dreamt I was a time-travelling, Kung Fu-fighting secret agent — sort of a three-way cross between Marty McFly, Bruce Lee, and James Bond.

The dream was going really good — I foiled a demon’s attempt to re-convert me to Armstrongism,

(Read 1975 in Prophecy! to learn just how right he was.)

and I was kicking all sorts of malign ass — when the real-life bickering between my parents woke me up.

Just gotta love my parents. When they’re not sabotaging my life, they’re sabotaging my dreams.

* * *

(ORIGINAL ENTRY DATE: 16 JULY 2016)

I had a dream early this morning where Glenn Frey

hypnotized me and Gillian Anderson using a video played from a smartphone. Once in the hypnotic trance, I had a dream within a dream of a woman getting her teeth cleaned at a dental clinic.

* * *

(ORIGINAL ENTRY DATE: 19 JULY 2016)

Had a dream were I met and got romantically involved with two different, equally vivacious women.

I informed neither of the other's existence. Regardless, one of the girls found out about the other and gave me an ultimatum to choose between them. As I liked them both equally, I didn’t want to have to choose between them.

(Where's a Fly-type transporter when you really need one?)

* * *

(ORIGINAL ENTRY DATE: 7 AUGUST 2016)

My last dream was pretty disconcerting.

It was like I was trapped in a Twilight Zone episode where the laws of physics themselves seemed to be breaking down around me.

I would see things appear and disappear in-and-out of thin air without anyone else noticing,

and the people in my life themselves would change shape – take on different hairstyles,

skin colours,

even different dimensions.

Matters got so bad that I opened the front door of my home, and facing the cold winter weather outside, I screamed out to God to deliver me from whatever was happening. It seems God did answer my cry, for the weird breakdown of reality came to a halt. In this new stabilized reality, I found that I was now blond, in my early teens, with a pronounced overbite.

I was also the sidekick of both Superman and the Flash, dressed in some Kid Flash/Superboy combo outfit.

* * *

(ORIGINAL ENTRY DATE: 12 AUGUST 2016)

This dream began with me connecting an N64 console to my TV and struggling to get a pristine reception through the screen. Then some weird shit with my house catching fire transpired and the dream realigned. Suddenly I found myself watching a SW equivalent of Reservoir Dogs. Watto

had brought all these gangsters together for some nefarious purpose. One of the gangsters was played by Bryan Adams.

Anyway, Bryan did something which pissed Watto off, so Watto had him killed.

* * *

(ORIGINAL ENTRY DATE: 15 AUGUST 2016)

Had another one of my “back to high school” dreams earlier today. In this dream, I was crawling through the hallways and up-and-down the stairs on my belly like I was a giant lizard, hissing at anyone who looked at me the wrong way or tried to interfere with me.