No more pizza before bedtime for me.
The other night I had a frozen pizza very close to bedtime. I initially was naïve enough to think that the sandwich I had after work was going to curtail my appetite for the evening and it may very well have, were it not for the ill-timed Pizza Hut commercial that played during an episode of something I wasn't even paying attention to. Then I wanted pizza, but made my way, and I knew immediately this craving was going to be a persistent bugger.
So, I surrendered to the inevitable, taking the frozen pie, complete with the frozen sauce, toppings and cheese, and added my own toppings, primarily because the standard allotted amount per frozen pizza is beyond inadequate, it's almost insulting. The ingredients can vary, but on this particular night I added my own sausage, fried up in little pieces, pepperoni, onions and mushrooms, and then topped it all with shredded mozzarella and parmesan cheeses. I baked my creation at 450 degrees until the cheese was a perfect bubbly brown, and devoured it while I watched a classic episode of M*A*S*H, one of the ones where Hawkeye writes home to his Dad. I wiped my mouth when it was gone and made myself a drink and decided to do a little writing before turning in. I finally went to bed about an hour and half after eating my masterpiece.
Then it happened
The dreams. They came rapid-fire, all piping hot with extra toppings. As is the case with most dreams, there was no sequential order. In fact, there was no order whatsoever. It has always befuddled me how a dream can be so completely bizarre that even the mere mention of it out loud once you’ve awakened makes you question your own sanity and though you store this in your subconscious so that it won’t happen again, when the dreams return we are yet again swept into their world, in a trance, like kids staring down the cereal aisle
It started out tame enough. I am at a convenience store waiting in line to purchase beef jerky and a squirt gun, standing behind a man the size of a handicapped accessible port-a-potty, only taller. Sandwiched between this mammoth of a guy and myself was a man much shorter than either of us, maybe 5' 4 or so, and he was staring right into the crack of Mammoth Boy's buttocks, and it is making me giggle. The shorter man hears my laughter and whips himself around with a look of animosity that, while impressive, is short lived because he sees the size of my squirt gun and realizes immediately he don't want none of this action. Well, in the time it takes me to give the humbled little man a look of "You know that's right, stumpy” (editors note: I'm buff in my dreams), I become suddenly aware of a voice directed at me that is originating from behind the slim jims and "Who Farted" Zippo lighters near the register. I side-step five paces to the left so that I can see around Mammoth Boy and there she is behind the counter, a very large woman in a muumuu and a bad wig and she's calling me "Muffin".
******Another editor’s note: My dreams, for whatever reason, include “wipes”, the video editing tool that transitions one scene to another in different ways. For instance, a “star wipe” would be one that that takes the shape of a growing or shrinking star in transitioning one scene to another. Other examples include heart wipes, iris wipes (growing or shrinking circles) and matrix wipes, (a patterned transition between two images or scenes). Please do remember this, as you will need it sporadically throughout the rest of our adventure******
Before I can respond to Madame Muumuu, we star wipe to the stands at a football game. I’m not sure who’s playing because it appears Mammoth Boy has a brother and he’s positioned his large ass directly in front of me. But the beer man is coming and I’ve got my squirt gun, so all is well. I go to reach for my wallet, and I’m shocked to find myself in a muumuu with no pockets to be found. No wallet means no money. No money means no beer and the reality of not seeing the game due to Mammoth Boy’s brother and enduring this without the help of alcohol hits me hard. Oh, and by the way, I’M IN A MUUMUU!!! As the beer man stops at my isle I notice he is a man with a woman’s face. The woman behind the counter where I got my squirt gun. She rubs her brow with a hairy hand and asks me what’ll it be?
Then she calls me “Muffin”.
And we iris wipe to my desk at work. I’m hard at work when the phone rings. It’s an Indian man who owns a convenience store and says he has me on camera stealing beef jerky with a squirt gun. I explain that I paid for the gun and the jerky and he calls me a name that insinuates an incestuous relationship with my Mom, at which time I become so enraged that I start spouting out obscenities to this man at a rate that causes some of the words to become tangled in their delivery. Words like “Mother Bitch” escape my lips and now I’m embarrassed because my co-workers must surely think I don’t know how to curse properly. Before I can reassure them that I really am fluent in profane language….
…We matrix wipe to an auction house where fine art, automobiles and bovines are being bid on by energetic consumers. Before I know what’s happening I have inadvertently become engaged in a bidding war with a small man that looks curiously familiar to me. I see a reconditioned 1966 Mustang with a brand new engine and top of the line stereo system on the stage behind the auctioneer and, though I’m not really fond of classic cars, I continue to bid higher than the little man because the bidding is still at less than one thousand dollars and for whatever reason I don’t like the little bastard. A few minutes later I am declared the winner with a high bid of fourteen hundred and ten dollars. I cannot believe my good fortune at finding such a bargain and smile as the little man flips me off. I go to a window and give the woman my Visa and she gives me a receipt and tells me they will bring my prize around to me out front. Out front a pot-bellied man in overalls and nothing else brings me my prize, at which point I realize I was not actually bidding on the car, but instead on a cow. Didja get that? A fourteen hundred dollar cow!!! Not just any cow, though. This cow was wearing a muumuu.
And it’s name was “Muffin”.
Just then the little man I was bidding against comes out spewing obscenities at me for buying his cow and I realize it’s the little man who was staring at Mammoth Boy’s butt crack and I begin to giggle. As he gets closer, I decide not to fight him, however, because some little guys in my past dreams have turned out to be ferocious ninjas disguised as little men loitering at cow auctions and I realize I don’t have my squirt gun.
Right about this time I awaken to my find my television still on and a commercial with the chic-fil-a cows. Eat more chicken, they say.
Anything but pizza.
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