I had a rough night, dealing with floods and broken dams and loose animals and broken bridges and floating trucks--nothing bad happened, so don't worry--and didn't hit the sack until about 4:30 a.m. central time, 3:30 a.m. mountain time.
However, I felt compelled to get up to tell about a dream I just had.
After which I'll hit the sack again, and then later today describe last night, where nothing bad happened.
I first started reading Sigmund Freud on dreams when we were still over at the old home, but I wasn't making much sense of it. When we came over here, I still wasn't making much sense of it, but had managed to plough through the rest of it, and then move on to Sigmund Freud about poor bowel management being the root cause of most neuroses, psychoses, and primitives.
Well, what Sigmund Freud wrote about dreams, apparently I'm beginning to understand, at least subconsciously.
I had a new dream, again about the Obamaite primitives.
I dreamed I was sitting on the veranda of Shepheard's Hotel in Cairo, Egypt, having tea with my fellow alum Skins after a game of polo. I disremember our conversation, as General Allenby and T. E. Lawrence interrupted us.
Anyway, after a while, I commented to Skins about the hordes of primitives on the streets below. "I wonder who all these people are," I said; "there hasn't been this much tumult, this much hustle-bustle, this much dust-stirring, since construction of the Pyramids."
My fellow alum said these were Obamaites, and that they were scurrying around getting ready to follow their Messiah into the Promised Land.
Oh, I replied.
Pedro "Beach Boy" Picasso slipped by, carrying an armful of hand-made icons of Obama to hawk among the believers. The cali primitive trod the sidewalk, screaming curses upon non-believers. The disgynaecological Kansas school teacher walked by wearing pink underwear.
After a while, Skins suggested, "You want to follow them, to see what happens?"
Yeah, sure, I replied.
My fellow alum got up to engage a chariot. I noticed he hadn't left a tip, and so as to not make him look bad to the waiter, I slipped a five-pound bank-note under his cup.
Skins came back with the chariot, and we donned our sun-helmets for the ride, following the Obamaites out of the city into the desert, on their way to the Promised Land.
Who's the guy in front of them, I inquired of Skins, the guy with the ornamental shepherd's crook?
Skins told me it was Obama leading the way.
I asked why the Obamaites walked so far behind him, and was told that many of them stooped to collect the sand on which Obama had walked, to save as sacred relics and talismans.
Through the clouds of dust, one could discern ten or twelve Obamaites carrying a platform on their shoulders. It was a heavy load, and the carrying Obamaites struggled desperately to keep it aloft.
"What's that golden thing on that platform?" I asked; "it looks sort of like a calf, but I'm not sure."
My fellow alum assured me that it was in fact made of gold, pure gold, and that it was the most sacred cow of the Obamaites, an idol of Moloch, the Destroyer of Infants.
Oh, I said.
We followed the Obamaites clear to the shores of a sea.
"Now what happens?" I asked Skins.
"Just watch," my fellow alum said; "when Obama raises his shepherd's crook, it magically opens something.
"And then when he raises it a second time, it closes the same thing."
Oh, I said.
At the edge of the sea, Obama raised his staff.
The waters parted, and the Obamaites followed their Messiah, keeping a respectful distance.
Obama got to the other side, and turned around to address his followers, still in mid-channel.
Then he raised his staff again, high in the air.
The waters merged again, engulfing the Obamaites.
