I had a really fucked up whiskey dream last night. In the dream I was residing in some kind of hotel room. I had the windows blocked out to keep the daystar at bay. I was walking around in only a button down shirt, no pants, no socks, no undershirt, no panties, just a shirt. I don't recall exactly what I was preparing to do but I know it involved a pitch black bathroom and some Nickelodeon Gak!. I remember walking towards the bathroom and the little light seeping in from the windows allowing me to see my reflection off the bathroom mirror. I looked really fucked up, most definitely drunk, and my eyes were rimmed like I'd been crying or throwing up, probably both. I know I meant to go into the bathroom but I didn't because James St. James was coming down the hall towards my room. I don't know how I knew he was coming but I did. I also didn't intend to let him in when he knocked. Next to the door were 2 fax machines on the floor. One of the fax machines was spitting out fax after fax, all from Il Duce, and all very angry demands and rants. There was so much paper coming out of the fax machine it covered the floor and spilled up over the machine. James St. James began knocking on the door and talking to me, at the same time Il Duce began calling me on my cell phone. I didn't say anything to James St. James or answer the phone. I looked back and forth between the fax machines on the floor and the door then walked into the black bathroom with the Nickelodeon Gak! surely to perform some kind of sexual perversion on myself. Then I woke up.

Fucked up, no? I wouldn't even know where to begin trying to understand what the fuck I was thinking psychologically. I hope it wasn't a portent. The hotel room, the drunkenness, the throwing up, the crying, all that shit is standard day to day fare. It's the Gak! I'm concerned with, I'm really not all that comfortable fucking or being fucked by some Nickelodeon Gak! I think all those little styrofoam beads would chafe. I wonder where my LoveLump was?

It takes an astute and highly skilled mind to decode the following female proposal, follow if you can.

Her: "Why don't you want brass collar stays!?"
Me: "Well, you see, often times I get over-served. When I am over-served I oft forget to remove my collar stays before throwing my shirt into the hamper. Thus, I lose most collar-stays. I feel I must reiterate that it is not my fault since I was one, over-served, and two, over-served."
Her: [to an associate] "I just can't listen to what he tells me sometimes… responding could get me fired."
Me: "You know, it would be harder to hear you if your lips was around my dick."
Her: "You see… look! I... dammit!"

Translation: I want your throw-up in my ass.

It's plain as daystar to me. Can you see it? I demand vindication!