Or maybe that’s “dickweed”. Let me explain.
I’ve been sick for the past couple of weeks, but I’m all better now. For those of you making the obvious “sick mind” jokes, just… well, yeah, okay. I guess I can’t argue.
However, now I understand the true meaning of the phrase “fevered dreams”. And lucky you, I’m going to share. Hang on, ‘cause here we go:
A large group of Puritans stands silent and stock-still, all eyes fixed on me. Men, women, and children, all garbed in sombre black with white lacy collars. They just stare. I don’t know why. Their holy book is a catalogue of hand-crocheted sweater patterns. On the front is a photo of a blonde fashion model wearing a lacy, openwork yellow sweater.
I’m not even going to try to analyze that little vignette. But as the night wore on, my brain started to serve up coherent stories that only changed when I realized they were dreams.
The scarred, grizzled leader of a bike gang gets into my car and informs me that I will be hosting a party for the gang. It will be a barbeque, and we discuss the menu while I drive to town to buy groceries. They’ll have New York steaks, and I will make my famous potato salad. Baked beans are discussed and agreed upon. I do not find this funny. I know as soon as the steaks are grilled to medium-rare perfection, I’ll become the evening’s entertainment. My chances of survival are slim. Death will be merciful.
All very dark and threatening, but the dream continues: They will bring their own beer.
Then I knew I had to be dreaming, so my brain switched scenes:
I awaken lying prone on a grey marble roof. My drink is beside me, the glass slithering over the slippery curved edge as I open my eyes. Sheer terror seizes me when I make a grab for my drink and realize I am hundreds of stories above the ground. I jerk away from the edge, and irritation overcomes me. I mutter, “Well, shit, I’m just going to throw these blankets over the edge and hope there’s nobody underneath when they hit, because I’m not climbing all the way back up here to get them.”
I must have made it down from the rooftop safely, because next thing I knew, I was a nurse.
I watch an angry-looking uniformed woman stride across the hallway, and my inner narrator dictates, “The administrator had heard about the blocked toilet ten minutes ago. This allowed her nine and a half minutes to be furious.”
For some reason, the narrator thinks these two sentences are sheer literary genius and must be written down at the first opportunity. (And I just did. Hmmm.)
Anyway, that dream went on, too: I am one of a team of several nurses who must lift a six-hundred-pound patient. As we gather around him, he booms, “Hell, my dick is 330 pounds alone! It could be even bigger if I wanted. Every day I rub it with dillweed!”
I wake with the triumphant bellow of “Dillweed!” still echoing in my mind.
Welcome to my brain. Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.
P.S. Wanna buy some dillweed? I hear it’s great for… well, you know.