At the Bottom of the Cereal Box

I can’t explain this.

I’ve been having some really bizarre dreams lately. Vivid, day-glo, orange Technicolour dreams. The kind of dreams that are so real they drain you, and you just don’t feel like getting out of bed lately. Normally, my dreams are pretty vibrant. I chalk that up to an overactive imagination. Maybe that’s why I never liked dropping acid. Sure, that pink elephant with the bloody fangs and bat wings singing “C’mon, Get Happy!” in my bad trips is totally fake, but go explain that to my imagination. Someone’s gotta stop that fucking crazy pink elephant before he eats me!

But I digress.

There’s got to be some chemical change in me that’s causing these dreams to be even crazier than normal. The last time I had dreams this wacky, I was all doped up on Wellbutrin. Wellbutrin’s notorious for giving you nightmares. Except these aren’t nightmares. Hang on…I’m still on Wellbutrin. And on large doses of Zonisamide.Maybe the Zonisamide’s been boosting my imagination.

Or maybe it’s the Vitamin D I’ve been gobbling up lately. Or the Omega 3. I dunno.

The imagination in my dreams reminds me of scrapping the bottom of a cereal box, looking for those last tasty kernels of strawberry, and finding some that still taste good. My imagination’s looking for something…I know this makes no sense to you. Hell, my dreams don’t make much sense to me either.

So, come with me and we’ll search the bottom of the cereal box, and find something tasty. And while you’re at it, tell me what the flying hell my dreams are all about.

Fever-Withered Dream #482

I have a certain skill: the ability to blend in and gain people’s confidence. Not to rip them off, mind you, but just blend in and get people to trust in me. This skill has been recognized by some government agents, who want to use my skills. The Feds want me to infiltrate some fringe groups they deem to be a threat to the American way. At first, I decline. No way. I’m not a government stooge.

The Feds’ offer is enticing, though. No money, but I get to infiltrate and spy in on a group I have no love for.

The Klan? Nope.

Al-Qaeda? Not even close.

Scientology? Bingo!

I’ve been tasked to immerse myself into Scientology. If possible, get chummy with the #2 guy (Mr. You-Know-Who) and get as much info as possible. Surprisingly, this proves to be an easy task. I met Tom Crui…er, Mr. You-Know-Who at a college basketball game. He likes me so much that he invites me to shoot a movie with him. The “movie” turns out to be a Scientology propaganda video. Every Scientologist in Hollywood and the entertainment industry is in on this film. And they’re all talking freely about how they’re going to bring down society for not believing in Scientology.

The Feds move in, and Scientology’s dreams of enslaving non-believers goes down in flames. My spymasters are so impressed that they then dispatch me to China, just before the Beijing Olympics are getting ready to start. I have a bad feeling about this assignment. I try to beg out of it, but they insist.

My fears were justified. Just as I was getting ready to check into my room at a swanky hotel in Beijing, the Chinese authorities raid my room. I manage to escape and meet up with…my dad? He’s a spy, too? No way! We’re taken to a safe house, which turns out to be a newsstand owned by a friend of his.

One thing about my dad: he knows everybody. I know we’re going to be safe.

Good thing I didn’t find out if this was true or not. The sounds of the TV woke me from my dream.

But not before…

Fever-Withered Dream #794

Of all people, I share a cubicle with Tina Fey. I mean, it would be awesome to share a cube with Tina . We’d never get any work done, that’s for sure. Yeah, this is a pretty strange dream so far. dwelling in a cube? Yeah, only if she could serve drinks!

We both work for a colossal fucktard. The kind of fucktard that would have been a power-hungry cop that loves to exert his “authoritah” on skater boys and old ladies. He jumps our shit for having too much fun. Fuck him. Time to cut him down to size. He’s a midget anyway. Not that I don’t dig on midgets; he’s not really a midget, not like that dude from “Game of Thrones.” Although kind of like an asshole like him. What’s my point?

Just to piss him off, Tina and I hijack his weekly staff meeting. When Mr. Fucktard asks us for a status on what we’re working on, we launch into a something similar to the Aristocrats joke. You know that joke, the joke’s so good that the rest of the attendees at this meeting join in on the joke.

But Mr. Fucktard doesn’t think it’s funny. In fact, he fires every one of us on the spot.

Like we fucking care. We both drop our microphones like they’re hot, and walk out of that conference rooms, chests puffed out, strutting out of there like we’re two of the baddest muthas ever.

Dream over.

 

(This blog was brought to you by the Daily Post’s Writing 101, Day One Challenge.)

 

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