April 27, 2010

Dream Weaver

I had to scoot down to the Pocket City, Dale Evans favorite berg, on Sunday evening to be there for a Monday morning meeting.

I woke in the early morning hours in a cold sweat. I rarely dream, but I just had a doozy. I dreamed I died in my sleep, in a hotel. Was it heart attack or stroke? I have no idea. I was looking down on my body lying in the bed, bowls empty, eyes staring at nothing in the far distance. I saw the maid come into the room and scream. She crossed herself and spoke Spanish to my corpse.

I know some things. I do not want to be buried with shoes or socks on. The Cubs will break my heart. Beef and noodles must be served with mashed potatoes. I do not want to die alone in a fucking Hampton Inn.

5 comments:

Cappy said...

I'm not shrink, but I did stay at a Holiday Inn Express...

Fuzzy Curmudgeon said...

"Beef and noodles must be served with mashed potatoes."

Fukkin' A right, bro.

Dan O. said...

Yeah, yeah, but did you make the sale?! (Home office wants to know) heh

Ed Bonderenka said...

I want to die in my sleep like Grandpa did, not like the passengers in his car...

Dick said...

I want to die the old fashioned way. A bullet in the back of my head via a jealous husband or father, just as I'm hammering home the perfect downstroke and busting a load that a pinata couldn't match.

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