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.

The New Librarian/Nic Olié/So-Called Chaos

I paid a visit to my local library. While at the check-out counter, I saw a new librarian had been brought on staff. She was five-to-ten years younger than I and rather short, only in the neighbourhood of five-feet tall. She wore her ash blond hair short and feathered, and her eyes were blue and watery. She wasn’t drop dead gorgeous, but certainly pretty. She was wearing a gray-and-cream striped T-shirt which really hugged her modest but perky chest.

We got to talking. That’s when she made it clear to me in no uncertain terms that if we weren’t in such a public place, she’d jump my bones right then and there. We made arrangements to meet somewhere after she got off of work to fool around.

I got the sense this woman was going to be nothing but One Night at McCool’s-style trouble.

* * *

I watched a version of The Phantom Menace where Ric Olié was played by Nicolas Cage instead of Ralph Brown.

“The deflector shield is too strong! Oh no not the blasters! Not the blasters! AHH they’re in my eyes!! My EYES!! AHHHHHHH!!!”

* * *

Dreamed that Alanis Morissette, nude save for a pair of panties she’d bought from Sears, had covered herself head-to-toe in red body paint.