The Shart of Destiny

Sometimes I think that dreams are significant in the sense that they're symbolically meaningful. Other times I think that they're simply the result of random neural activity, your brain's way of saying "Well if you're not going to let me watch an episode of Growing Pains right now, I'm just going to have to entertain myself." Still other times I think the former is true but hope that the latter is true, for the simple reason that on occasion, my dreams are so baffling and weird that if they symbolize something, that something can only be the impending apocalypse. For example, consider this dream-sequence that I had the other night:

I was standing in the lobby outside of my office when these three musicians showed up. Apparently they were rivals or something of mine and/or the band that I was in, and I had supposedly had physical altercations with them in the past. These guys started taunting me, so I produced a large taser and a cattle prod from my backpack and proceeded to annihilate these apparent-douche-bags with my excellent electrical weaponry. After I administered this electro-beatdown, the three guys complained that I had unnecessarily escalated things and that more importantly, the weapons that I had just used weren't "fair." Amazingly, I agreed with this, and so I then allowed one of the guys to bash me over the head with an acoustic guitar, repeatedly, until it shattered into a million pieces. I guess I allowed this as some sort of compensation or something, I have no idea. I'd like to think that I'm a cooperative person, but I'm telling you straight up: under normal circumstances, if you want to hit me over the head with a guitar, you have to pay double for that kind of action.

Anyways, after the guitar-to-the-head lameness, suddenly and without warning, I found myself in a bathroom stall. I was panicked, not because someone had just assaulted my cranium with six strings of fury, but because apparently I had just ripped a serious fart, and I was worried that instead of farting I had sharted. Seriously, I'm not making this up--this was what was in the dream. So, I pulled my pants down to inspect any potential shart damage that I may have inflicted, and I discovered that my boxer shorts were filled with Indian food. I don't mean that they were filled with Indian food that had wound its spicy way through my GI tract after I had eaten it--no, I mean that I had actual Indian food in my pants. I started removing it with my hands, and discovered that there was Chicken Vindaloo, Raita, and a whole host of other Indian foodstuffs down there. At that point, I woke up.

Do you see what I'm saying, here? If this sequence of dreamy events really does symbolize something and/or if it's a portent of things to come, then things are about to get SERIOUSLY WEIRD around here--not in a cool/fun Pee Wee's Playhouse kind of way, but rather more like a menacing "John Holmes on Crack" kind of way. And that's not good for anybody. Keep your eyes peeled: if you see any weirdness involving purveyors of Indian foodstuffs, underwear, acoustic guitars, or cattle prods, meet me under the Key Bridge at midnight, and we'll discuss our next move.