Spring is in the air. I can feel it on my skin. Hear it out my window. And see it on newsfeeds, news channels, and news related, Steadman-illustrated dreams. A vibrant aural hum is building momentum out there, in the great blue beyonder. The tone of the birds singing has taken on a frantic, ornery, repetitive plead. The ether of the northern hemisphere is waking from a late winter stupor with a deep seeded, primal urge to fight and/or fuck anything in sight.
I woke this morning, soaked. Fortunately it was just sweat.
I had just been torn from the grips of one of the most graphic visions I have ever experienced. It went something like this:
In my dream, I woke up on my couch at some early morning hour to the sound of the cable news blaring out in hypersonic belches of smagmatic drizzle.
The news man, Tony Clifton, was ranting and raving to the camera about the total outrage of what that crazed, mutant PM had done now. Also, he berated the cameraman, tossed a coffee cup full of scotch at the weatherman, and stood up on his chair and pissed all over the anchor desk. Once the security guard got Tony sedated with a ham sandwich and a chocolate milkshake, the co-anchor (Bevis) continued on with the details of the PM debacle…
The PM had been busted in the middle of a multinational, multi-species, gang-bang. There was a procession of evidence being taken from his house to the police vehicle. Exotic drugs, sex dolls, baby seals, cheetos, a basement full of three-piece-suited concubines, DNA smeared omnibus bills, cameras, soldering irons, gag-balls, jack-in-the-box’s that had huge rubber phallus’ painted to look like Mr. Ignatieff dangling out of them by rusty, barbed wire springs. It was a never ending conveyor of smut, pagan excess, and politics.
And then the piece de resistance, a naked, shivering, maniacally grinning PM came out of the house, hands behind his back, butt-ass naked, with what appeared to be peanut butter and jam smeared all over his body.
Over and over, he kept repeating the phrase:
“I am the Lizard King, I can do ANYTHING!”
For some reason, instead of stuffing him into a squad car they paraded him down the winter street, with only an old dirty tube sock to cover the PM’s withered, dripping member. It was a scene of beauty. People cheered and screamed high-pitched wails of joy for the demise of this greased-up, derelict-party, leader.
The dream cut to a giant court room, astro-dome sized, with cursing, spitting, audience members. They were lined up around the action, shoulder to shoulder, as far as the eye could see.
It was the trial of the 21st century.
The prosecution consisted of rabid, unborn children dressed in Hazmat suits and skinny, 80’s style ties.
The PM had F. Lee Bailey and Hu Jintao representing him.
It was a hideous affair, thousands upon thousands of people were called to testify. The defence called nothing but expert witness’ who didn’t speak a word of English, making their testimony apt to sound both unintelligible and authoritative. In the end, a riot broke out, and the PM escaped… slipped so far up the backdoor of the Judge that not even the long arm of the law could reach him…
And then I woke up, soaked in sweat.
Thank god, it was only a dream.
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