The Best Dream
It was maybe the best dream I ever had. A kind of 1940’s Hollywood backlot Main Street, you know, houses with porches and screen doors.
Only a few tin lizzies and then up the center of the wide street this weird army came – in step, but not really marching – and singing!
And not all dressed alike either. I mean, some had cowboy hats.
When they got a little closer I thought it was the return of The Village People but then I saw these various birds among them and so I figured they’d teamed up with the Raging Grannies.
Imagine marching four abreast – eight nipples (I could see, you know, like pencil erasers beneath their shirts) all erect, brazen, defying history, the pope, the Senate foreign relations sub-committee, you name it.
And then just before they reached the drugstore (that’s how I knew it was a dream) they split down the middle, and, in twos, entered houses on each side of the street; just barged in.
You could hear the whack of the screen doors, and they’d march into the living room and yank out the plasma screen and walk back out and chuck it down on the sidewalk (by the old tin cans). Then they did the same at the next house.
It was all very orderly and full of restraint; I mean, they could have hurled the effin’ sets through the picture windows, but no, they politely snuffed out their smug gray faces on the cement, careful not to block any fire hydrants.
I was really sorry when the neighbour’s alarm woke me; almost angry that all the beep-fart jingle shit made me miss out on the rest.
I was really starting to look forward to that block party.