I had a dream … I think.

I found an odd combination of substances causes vivid dreams. Drink Coors Light and piña coladas in the hot desert sun while floating in a pool full of bath water. Add three or four sake bombs (depending on your weight), many rolls of sushi, tequila, and a tightly-rolled, dark-skinned cigar. Then, stumble home and hit the hay, preferably before you hit your nose on the pavement.

“Hey, cutie.”

“Huh? What?”

“Remember me?”

“Fuck. Where … what the … who?”

“From the pool? Melissa?”

“Yes, yes, right. Sorry it’s dark. Wait a minute. How did you get in here?”

“Your roommate gave me the key.”

“Kudos to him. He gets a wingman of the year nomination from me.”

“So. What would you like to do, now that I’m here?”

“Um, bake a cake?”


“Well, I do have the sweetest ingredient.”

“Don’t you want to kiss?”

“Why, sure. I must warn you, though, I smell of fermentation and burned leaves. My penis is also at the perilous stage between being unable to rise to the occasion and unable to return to its original state.”

“Whiskey dick?”

“Something like that.”

“Let’s see what I can do.”

The dream girl peeled down my boxer-briefs and began inflating her love doll (me). I had a tweener. I kept thinking, please, Willy, don’t let me down. Luckily she was quite skilled and Willy rose to the occasion. I never really know for sure if a woman wants me to finish, unless she tells me, which is extremely rare. When she sensed the point of no return was approaching, she climbed back up and whispered to me.

“Do you have a condom?”

“Um, yeah, no.”

“Which is it? Yeah or No?”


“Shame on you. What sort of man goes on vacation without a condom.”

“The fixed kind who is also a low expectation having mother fucker.”

“Hm. That’s a shame.”

“Damn. You just want to sleep now, right?”

“No. I meant it’s a shame that you don’t want to have babies.”


“Well, no, I’m not getting pregnant tonight,” she continued while sliding her thong to the side and inserting me, “because I’m on the pill. I came prepared, Mister.”

The sex was good, I think. Dream sex always is, isn’t it? There are never premature ejaculations in dreams. No people walking in on you. No broken penises or bruised taints. No wet dog’s nose in the mix. No “oops, my period started early.” Dream sex is always awesome, except for the part when you wake up the next morning and realize it was just a dream. Then you limp through a breakfast buffet of runny eggs, stale bacon, and blintzes, wondering if that sort of serendipitous sex ever happens in real life.


While in a 600 MPH flying tube to my birthday destination, I made some observations. I’m not calling them interesting–more curious.

1. Why, on flights, can’t the personnel use normal terminology? On the Mexican immigration form it asked for my surname (yes, I had to pause and think about it) and port of embarkation. I bet over 20% of the people on the plane answered incorrectly. Why not just say “last name” and “where are you coming from?” Stupid. Or, maybe I’m stupid because I haven’t properly stowed my iPad. Stowed? Really? Couldn’t the stewardess say, “Put your stuff away” and stop showing off with fancy words only used in flying tubes? She won’t be a flight attendant to me until she does.

2. Why does the life-of-the-party guy have to sit near me? He’s not friendly; he’s trying too fucking hard. Some people (me) don’t want to have a conversation with people (you). We want to read the magazine in the pouch and avoid thinking about how awful plummeting to earth would be, with or without floatation devices.

3. The people who work for the airline must have been told by someone that when they speak into a public address microphone, they become instant standup comedians. They don’t. They’re ten times worse than anyone at the most remote open mic night. Ole Jack Benny in a vest broke out this one today: “Hey folks, just a little reminder that here in Mexico you’re no longer on Pacific Standard Time; you’re on … party time.” Uk, uk, uk, uk … he’s a riot.

4. Why are toddlers so fascinated by the people (me again) in the row behind them. Don’t they see people outside of the tube? I don’t look any different in row 26 than I do pushing a grocery cart. This little fucker is fishing for compliments and I’m not biting. He’s not cute. He’s making me paranoid. Ew, now he’s pushing his little finger fries through the crack in the seat while his parents sit catatonic and I push them back with my stirrer.

5. Jesus, who farted? 

6. Why does airline coffee taste like it’s two days old?

7. Who decided that pretzels and peanuts make good flight snacks? Who goes to the store and buys a mix of peanuts and pretzels? No-fucking-body! How about Doritos, corn chips, or the most obvious: potato chips? They aren’t any less healthy than the salty lumps of crap they serve.

8. Why do people cheer when the plane lands? It happens thousands of times a day and only rarely doesn’t. In fact, when it doesn’t happen, nobody can offer much of a critique anyway. When the cab pulls to the curb, I don’t clap. When the barista hands me my coffee, he hears no applause. When I shut my front door and my house doesn’t crumble into the earth, I don’t cheer. It’s supposed to happen that way and no additional appreciation need be shown for the ordinary. If the pilot landed the plane, did four 360s, and a rear-axle wheelie, I’d give that fucker props, especially if I can turn back on my electronic devices.