Writings » The American Dream
The American Dream
Had a dream I was treating Data the Android forpost-traumatic stress. Apparently,scientologists believed he is the supreme space robot, even though he's Hollywoodplastic. Not surprised. 1/32 to scaledmodels, cardboard, and old buttons from prize cranes are convincing. At his wits end. Plans to paint hand grenades like Easter eggsfor children in the park. Not a badidea, yet frowned upon. Strangelyremoved. Not surprised. Been hiding in the garment district wherepeople speak in show tunes. Makes mewant a blunt object. Makes me want a hamsandwich. We ate cantelope and did tvcatchphrases 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 froma flagpole with a necktie. Showed mephotos of it with a birthday hat on. Kinda gay. Always thought it wasa 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 likeelephants. Indirectly ask Data thisquestion, which he doesn't seem to understand let alone respond. Not surprised. Would require a wrench or abrick from this distance. Miss my shotput arms. I looked outside and noticedthere were fish staring in. Reminds meof a studio audience. All those mouthsbobbing like canned laughter. This guy is still talking about his cat, and I nolonger care. Now I'm in a lazy boy on afront lawn. Sprinklers keep hitting myjunk. Not surprised. This asshole isn'tgetting wet. Something hits me. Like aspade to the cranium. Am I really sitting here with I, robot? Am I asserting the problems of a dioramapretending to be a machine? Asimov stirs in his grave. Don't know which isworse. A bitching robot, or the cat dander spewing from the bitchingrobot. Keeps brushing his shouldersoff. Notice it's like a snow globe outhere. I cut him off and ask if he knowsthe location of skynet. He politelyresponds no comment. Points up. Oppenheimerdoing the twist. Nuclear holocaust. Silhouetteof 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 particularlywant to break blood vessels in my eyes. Wonder how long it would take for thesmell to affect others if I soiled the bed. Decided to hold it. Broke even in skid marks. Filed my taxes under barbeque and shot-gunneda can of baked beans. Today would betypical. Selling presidential-themedbeanie babies to men in white vans. Menwith the wrong idea about training wheels. What a sweet smell. The Americandream...
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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