Yeah, one of those dreams.
The other night, while I was slumbering peacefully, dreaming that I was riding a horse across the desert sands of Arizona, a shot suddenly rang out from nowhere, knocking my bush-helmet off my head and knocking me off the horse.
As I scrambled to retrieve my hat and sit upright, a forbidding shadow covered me; a guy on a horse, wearing a 10-gallon cowboy hat, his rifle aimed down at me.
I looked up; it was my fellow alum Skins.
Irritated, I shoved the barrel of his rifle aside, complaining, "You know, this bush-helmet used to belong to Lord Baring, governor-general of British East Africa, and you've put a hole in it."
My fellow alum apologized; "I'm really dreadfully sorry, but I shouted at you, and you didn't hear me, so I shot to get your attention."
I had my suspicions Skins had intended something more than just to get my attention, but fortunately he's a poor marksman, and missed. But I brushed it off.
"What are you doing, roaming around here in the wilderness of the desert?" I asked him.
"I'm looking for the Democrat party, and got lost," Skins replied; "someone seems to have stolen it, and I can't find it."
Oh.
I replied, "Well, I'm out here looking for the meaning of life, and got lost. What say you and I ride together, until one or the other of us finds what he's looking for?"
That was agreeable to my fellow alum, and so after I plugged the hole in my bush-helmet and remounted my horse, we took off, across the desert.
We rode several miles under the blazing sun, until on the horizon appeared a third man on a horse.
Seeing us, he raised his arm upward, signaling we were to stop, and wait for him to approach us.
"Hi," he said, upon reaching us; "my name's Joe, Joseph Lieberman, Sheriff Joe." He pulled out his credentials, including his badge, thus proving his bona fides.
"I'm looking for this man," he said, pulling out a folded-up piece of paper. Unfolded, it revealed a photograph of some guy with short hair and big floppy ears, WANTED at the bottom.
Skins recognized him immediately, as did I.
"He's wanted for stealing the good name and reputation of the Democrat party," the sheriff told us.
"Look," I said; "I don't have a dog in this fight. For reasons of Principle, Ethics, and Sentiment, my heart and soul and checkbook belong to the Republican party, not yours. I know where this big-earred guy and his followers are at, but really, it's your problem to deal with, not mine."
"Well, maybe this might change your mind," Sheriff Joe said, putting away the photograph of the floppy-earred one and pulling out another sheet of paper. He unfolded it, and handed it to me.
I gasped.
It was a photograph of the junior U.S. Senator from New York, showing her beaten, bruised, black-eyed, puffy, cuts and lacerations all over. Obviously the work of the Obamaite primitives.
"My God," I ejaculated.
"Bastards," I added, "violating and mutilating a woman like that.
"Brutes who do that to a lady don't deserve to live."
So the three of us rode out, Skins and Sheriff Joe in pursuit of the big-earred one, and franksolich out to avenge the honor of a wronged woman.
We rode out of the Slough of Despond, through the Great Salt Desert, slipping through the El Raton Pass, through the fruited plains of Nebraska. By nightfall, we had reached the Danube River in central Europe, with its ornate medieval castles and dark forests. We turned away from the river and headed into the Carpathian Mountains.
The way through the forests was confusing; it was late at night, and we had only the occasional glimmer of a candle in the window of a faraway peasant cottage to guide us. The road was narrow, and so rather than riding three abreast, we had to crawl along single file, ducking the low-hanging branches of the trees.
We smelled it before we saw it.
We came across a clearing in the woods, a large meadow jampacked with Obamaite primitves; it was Woodstock all over again, excepting ten times more crowded. The scene was lit by flickering torches. There appeared not even the most rudimentary of sanitary facilities. The Obamaite primitives were garbed in medieval-like cloaks, robes, and tights.
That is, the Obamaite primitives who were clothed at all, or clothed partially. Most of them were squealing and squalling around buck-naked, mounting each other, rolling each other, mounds of arms and legs and posteriors intertwined. It was a vast Caligulan bacchanalia of wiggling squeezing slimy smeary bodies writhing and bouncing, groaning and wheezing in ecstasy.
The Obamaite primitives were obviously getting ready for the big show, to take place at a carnival wagon at the opposite end of the clearing. It was something out of Dante's Inferno, the orgiastic joys of the Damned.
The jughead-earred one was probably in the dressing-room of the carnival wagon, getting made up, and so we rode that direction, myself in the front, as if a wedge to get the three of us through the slimy greasy masses.
By the time we reached mid-clearing, the Obamaite primitives were so congested around us our horses had become frightened of this most disgusting apparition, and it took considerable skill to keep them on their feet, hobbled as they were from the masses of sweaty bodies. I used a pitchfork to prod the brute beasts out of our way.
The closer we got, the rougher it got. I had to lash a particularly-ugly Obamaite brute across the face, to get him out of the way, yes, but more so for the greater humanitarian purpose of improving his looks. Another Obamaite primitive tried to do something indecent with my fellow alum's horse, and I pulled out my six-shooter, despatching him to never rise again. A big fat sagging Obamaite primitive tried to French-kiss Sheriff Joe, and with the pitchfork, I managed to put three new holes in her, for hanging body-ornaments.
It was really scary, trying to get through this sea of Obamaite primitives pushing from all sides.
As we got closer to the carnival wagon, we noticed some sort of pre-Obama show, a warm-up thing, was going on; Pedro Picasso and Doug's ex-wife were playing with each other, to the great excitement and arousal of the Obamaite primitives near the front.
I turned my face, vomiting atop a deserving Obamaite primitive.
Okay, as most here know, in real life, I have a particular problem with some of the cats here. Rather than simply climbing onto the bed, they like to creep along a ledge near the ceiling in the bedroom, and when reaching that part overhanging the bed, dive down onto the bed.
It was at this point in the dream that one of them did just that, making a hard landing on my stomach, abruptly waking me up, and so pffffttt! the dream abruptly evaporated.
