Give me a day off, and the dreams return in swarms. Who needs dreams when you work in a cave? I had four small dreams that I awoke from this morning during the hours that I’ve been up and operating. Now it is after nine-thirty, I have my coffee and am watching a bluejay at the griffin cement birdbath inherited from an old local mansion around the bend. In the first dream I was working my first day in a small casino snack bar. I was wondering if I’d be able to keep the job due to my pansy ass Irish hands. Speaking of ‘witch, I am awaiting the results of my DNA test. Why don’t I dream about that?
Anyway, dream two got better. It was definitely one of my more amusing political dreams starring Donald Trump who came to Crystal Cave. He was wearing his blue silk suit which shone in the sun. I think he saluted me, maybe, on his way up the hill, more, Sieg Heil than anything. I told him that he got us into war with the Middle East, that gas prices were outrageous, and congratulations on being the first Jew president. I bowed graciously, “Salame, Salame, Bologna, Bologna”. Then I woke up. I’m sure, I dreamed this because the kids call the boulder, Jack Frost, at Crystal Cave, Donald Trump, and there is a resemblance. I say The Donald is just as big and hardheaded, but he has more hot air. A classy dame on one of my tours told me not to let Trump know about Jack Frost else he will come and take him.
I don’t remember the entirety of the third dream which starred a young couple dressed in red and white tight pleather space suits with matching boots, so they looked like comic book characters. The woman had mousey blonde hair like Sondra Locke. The two of them had snuck onto a spacecraft with plans of sabotage only to be captured and separated. These are the parts that I’ve forgotten, but the end, before I woke, is very clear. The young man was being dragged into a round metal portal or hatch which opened on command by two burly fellows wearing baggy red plastic suits which covered their faces, more Haz-Mat than anything. The woman was on the ground also being dragged in the opposite direction by two other guards that I can’t recall. Her mascara had run down her face, so she had been crying and looked like a raccoon. She had a red plastic pipe gun that she shot directly at a metal patch on some contraption that her husband had, like a pack. Suddenly the three of them, guards, whose hoods had blown off revealing their huge, red, Cthulhu, squid heads, and the husband, were all sucked through the portal. The word was out, cast, televised by an anchorman: Afghanistan had been struck by a nuclear weapon.
Arthur was in my final dream, he had a haircut. He was in the backyard, pooping.
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