- The Diary of Mitch R. Singer
- Hanging with the Goon
- The Consummate Politician Apologizes
- Rating the WWE's Roster by Their Stench
- The Esteemed Critic's Multiple Sentence Reviews
- Conan Brothers' Q&A
- Theme Park Mistress
- Hillsdale Paranormal Society
- Writer's Block
- Select Farmers Only Profiles
Friday, April 29, 2016
I Dream of Shaquille
I had a dream, and Shaq was in it. He could hold six beer bottles in each of his massive hands. He just showed up while we were playing basketball, materializing out of the ether. I asked him if he ever tried to hold as many things as possible in those hands.
"Yeah, cocaine," he said, which kind of made sense. He then showed us his genital herpes, and let me tell you, some things you can never unsee. They were on his thighs, not his genitals, and they were bright red and encrusted with scabby tissue.
"I keep having them lasered off but they come back," he complained. We informed Shaq that he needs to get a prescription for Valtrex.
He had written a book of poems about basketball shoes that I will never get to read because I don't live in a reality where Shaquille O'Neal writes poetry, sadly.
In this same dream, we encountered a Neo-Nazi band playing Avenged Sevenfold covers in the jungle. We got to that jungle in an airplane where one of my friends had just underwent successful male to female reassignment surgery. I had trouble finding a place for my dolly on the airplane. I don't know why I had a dolly but I remember that once we got to the jungle we watched WWE wrestlers Sasha Banks and Natalya make-out while sliding down a water slide and holding a baby.
There was another part of the dream where I helped an Asian immigrant buy fish at a market. I knew what kind of fish she was looking for, but now I've forgotten. There was also an incident in a hillbilly shack, where I was asked to crawl into a septic tank.
These are the dreams you dream when you get two hours of sleep a night.