I Want a New Case
I never remember my dreams. Ever. I guess that's the downside of habitual drug use. Well, one of many downsides, including but not limited to dry-mouthedness and being a fucking idiot all the time.
But this morning I woke up with that all-too-real feeling that the lucid dream I just had (and actually remembered) wasn't in my head. I didn't dream I ate a huge marshmallow and woke up with my pillow missing a la Bazooka Joe, but my first moments of being awake this morning came with a confusion I'd like to never experience again.
It started off innocently enough. Walking down 5th Avenue with my brother and mother, my cell phone rang with some disheartening news. Both my grandmothers and my great aunt had died, apparently all of old age with no connection to each other. The three of us wept openly, but somehow this news did not deter us from walking into an obviously fictional establishment that was part-OTB, part-casino and part-jewelry store. I'm pretty sure it was a co-venture owned by Bobby Flay and Scott Baio called "Scott and Bobby's House of Awesome."
I began to play a game with which I was wholly unfamiliar. It involved a briefcase with numbers and hooks on the inside and a batch of keychains with numbers on them. If the numbers on all 10 random keychains matched up with numbers inside your briefcases, I would've won $3 million (a figure that my subconscious somehow bumped up to $28 million later in the dream). I began to play as my brother and mother watched intently.
So far so good, cruising along, the first five all matched. Then the sixth, the seventh, the eighth, the ninth, and ultimately, without building the drama any further, all 10 matched. To quote that weird guy from Vegas Vacation, "I won the money. I won the money." I had just won $3 million, but none of the three of us wanted to celebrate publicly. We silently toasted our victory and dedicated it to our family members who had just been pronounced dead.
My brother and mother left this place, and I closed up my winning briefcase. I was about to go cash in when a salesperson of sorts of the floor came over and asked, "You won, didn't you? You just won $28 million, didn't you?" It was loud enough to cause a commotion, and people started to flock to my station. "No, no. No winner here," I bellowed, hoping these scavengers would disperse. And that's when it all went downhill for me...
A man with a raspy voice next to me said, "Let's see what's in the case then" and he started clutching at it, which is when I started to panic. "Stop, stop!" I yelled, but this man kept reaching for it and trying to open my briefcase in one motion. He overpowered me and took control, setting it on the table and opening it up. "Looks like you won," he said, and then I noticed who it was: Huey Lewis.
Fucking Huey swiped my winning case, and now the crowd was so large because I'm a winner and Huey Lewis is in the House of Awesome. And as the crowd engulfed us, my case fell to the floor in slow motion, keychains flying everywhere, things breaking off. The sales girl immediately raised her hand and says to me she says, "I'm sorry, sir, but the briefcase touching the floor disqualifies you from the winnings. I can't verify that nobody pulled a switcharoo while it was on the ground." WHAT?!
I pleaded for what seemed like hours, but I couldn't get anywhere. The rules were rules, and I was entitled to nothing. I screamed at Huey Lewis repeatedly, cursing his name, even dropping him my story of the world-famous Huey Lewis Coincidence, and all he could give me was a halfhearted shrug and a plea that he "didn't do it, maaaan."
And just as I was about to pull out my nine, I woke up. Strange. Any dream doctors in the house wanna take a swipe at that badboy?
Slack Video of the Day: Thanks to my man coach for finding this...
Slack Song of the Day: It's Herbie Hancock. Covers. Do it.