Last night was a very entertaining block of hours. I dreamt, and dreamt and dreamt. No, there were no drugs or recreational chemicals involved. Likewise, the "night horses" of the Apocolypse didn't appear. Well there were animals, but no mushrooms, or clouds. No, this was a BBC moment type of dream.
I was quietly pursuing the rest I so badly needed. And then, in a perfectly plummy British accent, I heard the voice. The Voice, "Please tell us more about your decision to invade Kansas."
Horrifying thought here. I had never even thought of invading one of the states. I could barely name their capitals. I even had to study to get the gulf region under my hat.
If states were involved, I knew I could only answer about states of delusion. Unless it were a state of mind involving huge gales of laughter, without storm clouds, cyclones, hurricanes, storm surges, and, well you pretty well have the picture.
Again, the plummy voice. "Where did you get the pure raw nerve to bring in an army?"
Suddenly, horror dawned, yet not so horrible. I was channeling God in the guise of Bush. And this bush was not burning.
Plummy guy came through again. I asked, trembling, well shaking in my PJ's, "Who are you?"
"George, I am God. The one with the real commandments. The same guy that allowed you to convince hundreds of millions that you weren't engaging in unnecessary nation building. I am here to collect."
"Huh?"
"Don't be cute. Before the fecal material hits the wind machine, I want my due. And you are overdue. And you are standing in the downwind place from the wind machine. And I AM NOT PLEASED."
Geez, I thought. What had I done to deserve this. Okay, the thing about night horses of the apocolypse was a slight exxageration. I was getting nervous. And I was speaking in disjointed sentences, with a horrible Texas twang. If I had been walking, I would have that strut thing going.
Trembling, I sought guidance.
Plummy Voice: "You have displeased my fun filled agent of change, Ann Coulter."
Oh boy, this was getting deep. "Ann Coulter, a Special Agent from God?"
"No, you nitwit. Ann is not a Special Agent, she is just an Agent. Regular. No class, special or otherwise.
"What, w-w-w-wha h-h-haves I dunnnnn?"
One name thundered forth. "Harriet Miers"
And there it was, plain as the shot glass on the night table. I had to think of something fast.
I had somehow angered that blonde vixen, Ann Coulter.
And then, the dream continued. A constant loop of repetition of the name, "Harriet Miers". It got to be the voice of a million bees circling my head. The only thing I could think of is that it is impossible for bees to fly. Aeronautical engineers told me that. And these guys are smart. Just like rocket scientists.
Wouldn't you know, God spoke and this time, this one and only time, gave me no direction. I'd have to figure it out myself. And then.
The dog. The DOG. The most perfect creature in the pantheon of God's creatures, gave me a big wet kiss on the cheek.
In panic, having gotten no direction from the big guy upstairs, or from Cheney for that matter, I considered what was going on. God was still and Englishman, sounding awfully like Tony Blair. Cheney was still by my side. And one big wet kiss from G-G-G-od, and I awoke.
No smarter than when I went to sleep. At least, I was still in that beautiful white house. And totally wondering what Harriet Miers had to do with the great job I was doing running the country.
And then, I the real dreamer, woke up. I looked for the ejection chair in my dream of offices with no corners. And then, I heard my cat purr, and knew I was safely in the Land of 10,000 Lakes. Thank Dog, ...God.