Through no fault of my own, I watch a little too much entertainment television before bed. I once saw George Clooney propositioned by an Italian journalist and later learned that it was all a hoax (apparently the Venice Film Festival will never be the same again). Lately it was revealed that Joaquin Phoenix’s paradigm shift from hare-lipped actor to hare-lipped rapper was a hoax as well (in related news he’s set to play Leonardo DiCaprio’s lover in a film adaptation of FBI founder J Edgar Hoover’s life). And who can forget how the death of GUESS cover model Anna Nicole Smith resulted in a custody battle which proved once and for all that washed up celebrities sleep around on their shyster husbands with photographers (and the lazy eyed little girl is doing well by all reports). Oh, and Michael Douglas has some sort of throat cancer that his younger wife is very pissed off about (she made a point of saying early on the doctors didn’t find it fast enough).
Ever dream about the last thing you see before falling asleep? Well, I must have drifted off to an update about the Micheal Douglas tragedy one night because there was a very strong Gordon Gecko theme to the last dream I remember having. I was at some hoity-toity but at the same time too risqué social do in an opulent penthouse looking over a night time city-scape lit up like a crack addict’s Christmas tree. Maybe I was playing the main role but there was this tickle in my throat that had me coughing bubbles into my two-hundred year old Scotch. Excusing myself from the discreet cocaine and nubile young bodies enjoying it one off another I went to lie down in a perfect copy of my own bedroom set on a raised platform in the centre of the party. I laid my self down fully clothed and tried not to cough but the tickle kept getting worse and I was disturbing my guests. With a complete disregard for my dream walking gag reflex, I reached an index finger down my throat to scratch the tickle. That’s when it started getting weird.
The cancer tickle had turned into a hand holding a feather to the back of my throat. Sensing the intruding digit the cancer-hand abandoned it’s throat itching and grabbed my finger. I must have made some loud if muffled exclamation because there were party guests surrounding me in an instant. They started taking off my clothes and rubbing me sensually like spectators in a group sex scene. I locked eyes with a pretty red-head bearing a striking resemblance to Mary Hart and saw myself fisting my own moth reflected in her eyes. She turned to tell the elderly woman next to her what she was thinking and the old bitty started seizing while John Tesh licked her nipples. Soon everyone around the bed was engaged in symptomatic sex of some kind while the cancer-hand swallowed itself so that I could taste my arm up to the elbow. Lubricated with my own blood, the throat rape began. So appalled was my dream self, so bound and determined to prevent the spectacle I had become, that he pulled back against the cancer hand with a might that tore a baby shaped mass out…
That’s when I woke up paralyzed. (This sometimes happen when I’ve dreamed something so fundamentally disturbing that my waking mind just can’t deal with the horror. I’ll lie completely still, barely daring to breathe, for anywhere from five minutes to half the night, hoping that the nightmare hasn’t carried me somewhere too far from which to return.) I didn’t so much regain my senses as I recouped their loss and found my throat drier than twice baked bread. Luckily I remembered the way to the bathroom,slurped three hand-cups of water out of the toilet before seeing my reflection in the bowl and the new vagina shape to my mouth with traces of a fresh...
Then I woke up for real. Or have I? Life’s been feeling entertainment newsworthy of late and I keep finding myself embroiled in petty scandals and intrigues. People are getting all up in my business and I don't go out anymore. I'm thinking about shaving my head, adopting a third-world baby and driving around drunk with my shaved head out the window, baby in my teeth, looking for a transgendered prostitute selling drugs. And I would if I couldn't see it all every weekday night from 7 to 8 on one of the only two channels I get on my analog television.
Maybe I should just fall asleep to porn. That'll fix me right up.
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