Writings » The American Dream
The American Dream
Had a dream I was treating Data the Android for post-traumatic stress. Apparently, scientologists believed he is the supreme space robot, even though he's Hollywood plastic. Not surprised. 1/32 to scaled models, cardboard, and old buttons from prize cranes are convincing. At his wits end. Plans to paint hand grenades like Easter eggs for children in the park. Not a bad idea, yet frowned upon. Strangely removed. Not surprised. Been hiding in the garment district where people speak in show tunes. Makes me want a blunt object. Makes me want a ham sandwich. We ate cantelope and did tv catchphrases in foreign accents for 3 hours. Especially fond of Whoopie Goldberg doing Dice Clay. Road bikes together. Told me about how some guy hung his cat from a flagpole with a necktie. Showed me photos of it with a birthday hat on. Kinda gay. Always thought it was a hobby for old women with a dragging uterus, but assumption was wrong. Thought about my teeth falling out. Though about making his teeth fall out. Shiny enamel on a necklace. It's the little things. Wondering if people poach human teeth like elephants. Indirectly ask Data this question, which he doesn't seem to understand let alone respond. Not surprised. Would require a wrench or a brick from this distance. Miss my shot put arms. I looked outside and noticed there were fish staring in. Reminds me of a studio audience. All those mouths bobbing like canned laughter. This guy is still talking about his cat, and I no longer care. Now I'm in a lazy boy on a front lawn. Sprinklers keep hitting my junk. Not surprised. This asshole isn't getting wet. Something hits me. Like a spade to the cranium. Am I really sitting here with I, robot? Am I asserting the problems of a diorama pretending to be a machine? Asimov stirs in his grave. Don't know which is worse. A bitching robot, or the cat dander spewing from the bitching robot. Keeps brushing his shoulders off. Notice it's like a snow globe out here. I cut him off and ask if he knows the location of skynet. He politely responds no comment. Points up. Oppenheimer doing the twist. Nuclear holocaust. Silhouette of a lazy-boy forever burnt into rushed urine stains. Maple syrup. My skin is melting....
Woke in a relish sweat. Not surprised. Consumption is grounds for fire in the sky, or the potty painted Rorschach violently. The thought leads to the latter. Stomach turns to monkey fist. My sheets are like Vietnam. Don't want to move. Don't particularly want to break blood vessels in my eyes. Wonder how long it would take for the smell to affect others if I soiled the bed. Decided to hold it. Broke even in skid marks. Filed my taxes under barbeque and shot-gunned a can of baked beans. Today would be typical. Selling presidential-themed beanie babies to men in white vans. Men with the wrong idea about training wheels. What a sweet smell. The American dream...
Posted by Mullanaphy! at 2008-08-15
Must say, its an interesting use of sentences. I miss your shot put arms too. Those things were like eagles shoved into a cannon and then mounted on to a helmet. Best weapon ever.
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