Sunday, March 27, 2011

Dream a Little Dream

I have this recurring dream that starts with a phone call. I groggily exit my bed and slump to the next room to pick up the receiver. "Hullo" I mutter. An obviously excitable young lady is on the other end. "Hi", she squeals. "I'm Bambi Bartel, an assistant producer with the Maury Povich show and I was given your number by a woman that wants to surprise you on national television."

Once I'm sure she won't give me any more info, I tell her I'm an introvert and will only appear if I can be invisible. She haggles; I counter. We end up agreeing that I can wear a paper bag over my head with eye and mouth holes at which time I'm whisked to
Chicago by some sort of teleportation device. (Dreams are under time restraint; shortcuts are sometimes necessary)

There I am in the hall awaiting introduction, a lovely generic bumble bee like fuzzy sweater announcing every morsel of fat on my huge frame in black and yellow stripes, a nice white pair of jockey shorts, (every dream I have ends up with me in a public place in my underwear) and a huge, orange pair of clown shoes flopping before me as I pace.

I hear my name mispronounced over the speakers, don my paper bag and proceed to the stage where I'm roundly booed and catcalled for what, I have no idea. There's a woman with Maury that looks every bit an Aunt Bea; a gramma type with horn rim glasses and frumpy dress, sipping on some yellowed liquid through one of those red, twisty straws. She gets in my face, or bag if you prefer, and screams at me in some alien tongue; something about farm animals and child support is all I can make out.

It's only been a few minutes since I was sound asleep, so I nearly nod off again just as a crate of vegetables appears in the audience and I'm pelted with passion fruit and collard greens among other items, nearly knocking away my disguise.

All settles down as Maury begins to weep in his Maury way. Choking back the tears he turns to my surpriser and says "tell Ron what you came here to say....if you can." She then sobs aloud as is the custom, turns to me and says, "32 years ago you made me pregnant you bastard, and your son wants to meet you...oh, and there's 18 years of back child support you owe me."

Emotion washes over me. I'm crushed, elated, afraid, mortified, curious, outraged, in denial and still sleepy in spite of my tomato and spinach bath. "But, but". I struggle for the right words; the phrase that will vindicate me and save my reputation. "Who the hell are you?" I ask suddenly. So much for tact.

The crowd groans and whips a few more cobs of corn in my general direction. "Honeypie", as she's finally introduced, stands in a huff and rummages through a purse the size of a Passat, finally pulling out an 8x10 glossy. She grips it with both hands and slams it into my bag, nearly knocking me and my red velvet chair ass over teakettle.

"This! This is what I looked like when you took advantage of me you creep!" As I'm a bit stigmatized, I push her hands back so the photo comes into focus. It's a bikini shot of Heather Locklear, right hand index finger crooked in a "come hither" position, left hand holding a spiked dog collar and matching leash.

I flail my hands to ward her off and sit up straight like mom taught me. Raising my right hand and spreading the fingers, I count off the women I've had sex with, lowering one finger after speaking each name. Once reaching six and never having heard "Heather" mentioned, I stood proudly and shouted "AH HA! Impossible!" (But the idea of sex with "Heather" appealed to me so I secretly stowed the thought for later perusal.)

Honeypie breaks down in tears and Maury gets all high and mighty like Maury does, huffing at me for blaming the victim or some such, as an assistant runs from the green room and pokes me with a needle, drawing a few pints of blood into a great big syringe.

She then squirts the contents into a dice cup and hands it to the host. "Are you ready to find out the truth?" he shouts smiling and nodding like a bobble head like he does, swiveling right and left toward the audience who jumps up like they're doing the wave, laughing and giggling, pointing and calling me naughty names.

"YES YES!" They cry as Honey stands and walks to me, looming her enormous shoulders over my little grocery bagged head. Maury covers the top of the cup with his hand and shakes it for a minute; then rolls it out onto a table surrounded by a dozen people in tie dyed lab coats.

My blood comes out like a twisted ladder, all green and yellow and long as if it was an exploded party favor. The docs lean into it, talking in low tones amongst themselves, ripping off little pieces of the string and realigning the parts like a jigsaw puzzle.

"YAHTZEE" one of the lab coats screams, and the audience goes nuts. Honey is again in my face screaming I toldja so's and Maury is just shaking his head back and forth in that "you fool, you thought you could get one past the great Maury" sorta way...like Maury does all the freakin' time.

"With a 99.99..." (he waits for a moment, looking to the lab coat table as one of the science geeks rips another piece of my genetic code from the bottom and tapes it to the top) 9999% certainty" he finishes, "You ARE the father of this child."

Honeypie sits back down and begins to bloat in a John Carpenter kinda way. The crowd is tossing ripe bananas and parsnips at each other as she gets bigger and bigger, until finally she looks like a combination of Jabba the Hut and the Cheshire cat...smiling at me in that Cheshire way and talking as if in slow motion something about "get ready cuz here comes baby."

I stand to meet my fate and face the "secret" door (the one between door number 1 and 3) as it bursts open. "DADDY!" he shouts, and skips across the room, playing a ukulele and singing some children's song that includes a few vulgarities peppered into it's lyric.

"Oh my God" I think aloud. "It's...it's Adam Sandler...MY SON IS ADAM SANDLER!!!!!!!!!"

I feel a sharp pain in the middle of my back. It repeats again and again as I scream and scream and..."Shut up and go back to sleep" my wife Linda says. "I have to go to work in the morning you worthless bum."


Actually, I don't remember my dreams. But if I did.........I just bet this is what they're like.

If you think you're my kid, please don't call Maury, just call direct. I hate the smell of paper bags from the inside.


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