Another one that qualifies more as a nightmare, I think: I was living back with my parents and my father was holed up in his office working on something feverishly. I poked my head in to say hi and immediately noticed on my dad’s back an incredibly filthy red jacket. It was covered in dust or drywall or something gross. Numerous references to this soiled garment went unacknowledged. Suddenly my father looked up at me with a cold glint of death in his eyes. Papers simultaneously began flying all about his office.
I retreated back to my bedroom where I tried to relax in the wake of learning my father is potentially the Devil but the singer from G.B.H. kept skateboarding into my room at obnoxious speeds (this dream version of my parents’ house was an uncarpeted bunker). Eventually I threw a glass bottle at his face, which of course touched off this huge incident. We were both arrested and G.B.H. was yelling that he was literally going to kill me.
I went on a severely long road trip with a handful of friends to parts unknown; on the way back, we stopped at a McDonald’s in the Midwest noted for its immense shrine to Appetite For Destruction era Guns n’ Roses. Five massive obelisks had been erected in a grassy field next to this McDonald’s—one for each member of the band, each decorated with something unique to the personality of the band member in question (Slash’s obelisk had a top hat, obviously; Axl’s had a kilt and a bottle of Night Train; etc).
It was cool gawking at this GNR memorial but eventually I craved chicken nuggets. I went into the McDonald’s to discover the kitchen was being sublet to a group of sorority sisters from a nearby college. Thus, no one really knew how to make the food. I wandered back outside where I saw Sean William Scott taking his shoes off so he could meditate in front of the Axl obelisk.
To commemorate my graduation from law school my parents hired a sky writer to draw a giant heart above the city with some sort of nice message inside. The sky writers in question used not a plane but a magical red ice cream truck that unfortunately ran out of juice before it was finished. I watched the truck land and the “pilot” get out—it was Bill Koch, that husky kid from Chicago who does all the magic. For some insane reason I followed Bill Koch home to his duplex where I learned he was breeding chickens. I let myself inside, we got to talking, and the next thing I know he’s hitting me up for money. I started writing a check, but he stopped me.
“What, you don’t have cash?”
I stood there for a second, a little offended, trying to gather my thoughts, when this seven foot tall guy I used to work with named Noah showed up to tell me because the Ramones were so punk rock I should give this other guy cash. Then the dream suddenly cut to grainy VHS footage of a fabricated Ramones show where Johnny, instead of playing guitar, tapped on the outer areas of Marky’s drum kit with his own sticks. Johnny was doing a little Native American rain dance or something while he tapped; this made me laugh so hard I woke up.
I was having dinner with my friend Joe. He was obviously livid at me for something I had done, and took his aggression out by dumping all the vegetables in my serving dish onto his plate. A stray piece of broccoli fell out of the dish last and bounced off Joe’s massive mound of greens. He quietly but firmly scooped it up and mashed it into the pile.
“Uh, you think I could get some vegetables?” I asked.
The response was dry and curt. Seconds later, Robocop burst through the front door. He opened fire on us before we had time to react. I knocked the table over in an attempt to create some kind of shield. We lived, and later found out Robocop was looking for a 7-11 employee uniform so he could go undercover somewhere to stop a robbery. Like putting a 7-11 smock over a guy who’s made entirely of stainless steel is going to protect his identity.
Imagine a world where Eddie Murphy never lost any of his white hot 1980s popularity. That was the world I visited in my dreams last night. Eddie was the new Elvis. Delirious and Raw were shown regularly on public transportation to keep commuters happy. Arsenio was still Eddie’s right hand man, and together they were working on some kind of large comedy science experiment throughout the country. Like, they were traveling to school parking lots and shopping centers putting on a weird 19th Century style road show that had the ultimate goal of proving something about America’s taste in comedy. Eddie and Arsenio were literally wearing lab coats for this experiment. I woke up before any conclusive data could be presented.
In my latest terrifying vision, Broken Lizard decided to make a Super Troopers 2. It was set in France, and the main villain was the dad from “That ’70s Show.” I was there to oversee filming. They kept paying me with American checks, though, and it took forever to cash them. At one point, I went into a Burger King and demanded a solution to this problem from the shift manager. He was little help.
In this disturbing vision, Scott Thompson from “Kids In The Hall” was following me around this beach, pressuring me to be his boy toy. I wasn’t really into that, so I stuck him with some Ukrainian guy I apparently knew. I left the beach and walked in to some nearby convention center where Stanley from “The Office” was carving a bust out of a giant hunk of milk chocolate. The room was crowded with people trying to guess who Stanley was immortalizing in chocolate; turns out it was famed baseball player Willie Stargell. Later, I went back to the beach where I saw Scott Thompson and my Ukrainian friend engaged in some serious monkey business, if you know what I mean (and I think you do).
This dream began with me interviewing Kristen Stewart for some magazine in an empty parking lot at about three in the morning. She was being her usual awkward self. When we were done, I walked K-Stew to some building where this wild celebrity party was taking place (I spotted big wigs like Travolta and Nicholson through the window). Before she went in, I attempted to give her some career advice. I can’t remember if I told her not to make stupid movies like Travolta’s Staying Alive or if I told her to follow her heart and make any kind of movie she wanted, but I do remember her not really seeming to give a crap what I was saying.
Kristen went into the party and I walked back to the parking lot. There, my father picked me up in his car and started driving me home. We got caught in some pretty heinous traffic under a really old bridge. Attempting to make conversation, I asked the approximate age of the bridge.
“They say this bridge was built by orientals,” my dad replied.
“This bridge, it was built by orientals, supposedly.”
“How the fuck is that supposed to tell me how old it is?”
My father shrugged and said nothing else. About a minute later, I woke up.
Last night I fabricated an amusing trend in which my friends and I all got ourselves talking “Lost In Space” tattoos. When I say they “talked,” I mean you just had to press down on the tattoo itself and a sound clip from the show would briefly play (I guess the tattoo artist implanted speakers under our skin?). This gut-busting concept was made all the more hilarious when it was discovered my Robbie the Robot tat spoke for a full three minutes once you pressed down on it. We spent hours, apparently, slapping my arm and listening to this thing go off. It just got funnier and funnier in the dream, and I’m actually smiling about it now.
Later, Rip Taylor stopped by and bought a Superman shirt from me for $100. That was a pretty sweet deal. I don’t think he noticed my awesome and loud ink.
In one of the funnier dreams I’ve had lately, last night my friends and I were reenacting the signing of the Declaration of Independence. We weren’t doing it on a stage or in a park or anything like that; in fact, I’m fairly certain it was taking place in someone’s kitchen. Still, for some reason, we were trying to maintain an atmosphere of professionalism and dignity. I don’t remember which founding father I was playing, but my costume was very authentic and I made sure to speak in ye olde English.
So my friends and I were trading dialogue about the King of England and taxation without representation and all that bullshit when our pal Jim Rumpf suddenly blew into the room with the force of twelve hurricanes. Jim was dressed as Ben Franklin and seated in the most ridiculous-looking wicker wheelchair you can imagine. If this isn’t immediately hilarious to you, picture a guy who looks like a John Travolta stunt double (or just John Travolta) dressed as Ben Franklin and sitting in a giant garish wicker chair from your grandma’s house…only he’s attached wheels to it, and he’s riding it faster than Dale Earnhardt.
Anyway, Jim zoomed up to the table we were standing around at approximately 90 miles an hour, lost control of the chair, and tipped the thing over sideways. From this position (and with a look of steely passion and love for his country) Jim offered up some famous Ben Franklin block quote about life, liberty, and throwing tea into a harbor.
Naturally, we all started cracking up pretty bad and breaking character, which we didn’t want to do for some reason. Were we filming this shit for the History Channel? I have no idea. No damn idea.
Later in this same vision, I got into a fight with my dad about who the funniest member of our family is, which lead to the amazing quote, “My toenails are funnier than all you people.” Then I wandered the highway system in some major city with my friend Ben Ditzler.
Somewhere along the line, there was a large body of water.