A Dream Remembered

I rarely remember my dreams.  I don’t know of anyone who can remember every detail of every dream they have ever had.  That’s not to say that such ability is impossible or even implausible.  I’m just not aware of anyone who has ever done it.

Even though I don’t remember my dreams, I know that I have them.  On the occasion I remember all of the sordid details of what my wicked subconscious has served up for my slumber, I try to make it a point to document everything I can about the dream.  Granted, the reason I write this stuff down is completely the opposite of some academic goals of studying the inner workings of my mind.  I don’t do it to aid in some sort of self introspection either.  None of that stuff interests me.  In fact, the only reason I do write it down is for you, my beloved reader.  Enjoy.

Last night’s nocturnal adventure within the labyrinth of the mushy goo between my ears found me boarding the elevator of a high rise building.  Upon entering the empty car, I selected the absolute highest floor which resided somewhere in the triple digits.  The Muzak version of Iron Butterfly’s “In A Gadda Da Vida” filled the compartment from speakers hidden somewhere in the ceiling.  Within what seemed like milliseconds of beginning my ascent to an altitude for which I would probably get a nose bleed, the elevator stopped to take on additional passengers.

Of all people my dream state could have coupled me with in close quarters; the one person among the small crowd that got on was Barack Obama.  Upon further inspection, I realized that the small crowd with him was his Secret Service detail.  One of the guards gave me the once over a couple of times just to make sure that I posed no eminent threat to the President, while one of his Ray Ban buddies selected a floor about halfway up in the building on the control panel.

The elevator resumed ascension and the Muzak.  At no time during the ride up did the POTUS ever turn to me and acknowledge my presence.  This behavior initially provided me with the hope that I had landed on his enemies list.  That would be good, because it meant he was reading my blog on a regular basis.

On the very slim to rare chance that TOTUS & The Symbiont were not familiar with my work, I would have been remiss to have received such an opportunity to give this guy a piece of my mind and not take full advantage of it.  As if I were climbing on my desk to sound my barbaric “Yawp”, I summoned all of the courage I had, I opened my mouth, and I let him have it.

“You know Mr. President, I gotta tell you something.  You’re doing it all wrong here.  Where do you get off?  Do you honestly believe all of the initiatives you’ve proposed over the last year are for the better good of this country?  You’ve spent more time rewarding failure and punishing success.  Do you know that?  That so called stimulus package you put out there has had the opposite effect of what you promised.  Even worse is that it’s helped to explode our deficit and drive up unemployment.  Your cap and trade policy is synonymous with a big-ass energy tax for every American out there.  Are you really going to sign that thing in Stockholm to put us under a world government?  Do you even have the constitutional authority to do so?  What about all of this health care stuff?  Do you realize that if you really wanted to insure the chronically uninsured you could have done it with the stimulus money?  Instead, you’re prepared to sign off on a plan that suggests prison time for those who willfully refuse to buy health insurance.  Have you ever heard of the Boston Tea Party, Mr. President?  Why do you think that had that little shindig?  Are you aware that the actions of the patriots at that party were one of the driving forces that led us to break away from the British Empire?”

As I continued my verbal assault, the President never once looked in my direction.  Yet still, I continued to get on his case as if I were Limbaugh on Fox News Sunday.  “Let’s just set aside the policy discussion for a moment which leads open to ideologically inspired interpretation, and cover some of the other stuff.  Where are all the negotiations you promised which would be broadcast on C-Span?  Did I forget to set the DVR for those?  Why have you spent well over a million bucks on keeping your birth records sealed?  I tend to believe you were born in Hawaii, but come on.  You’re giving all of those Birthers fuel for the flame.  What was going through your head when you authorized Air Force One to do some low fly-bys in New York City?  Don’t give me the weak excuse that it was done without your permission.  It’s your ride, dude.  Its whereabouts are probably on your daily briefing.  Speaking of your ride, just what has gotten into you that inspires you to board that plane and jet set around the world apologizing for our behavior?  What you should be doing is getting on that plane and going to Germany to celebrate the 20th anniversary of the fall of the Berlin Wall.  And just what the hell is a manmade disaster?  Who came up with that one?  Call it what it is, Barry.  Terrorism.”

Just as I uttered the “T” word, the elevator had arrived to the Presidents selected floor and had come to a halt.  I looked around the car to notice one of the agents in the Bamster’s detail had his hand jammed into suit jacket, and was most likely fondling the butt end of his firearm with the hope that I may start swinging my arms a little more.

The door opened slowly, and we all remained standing in one of those awkward moments of silence.  The President made eye contact with his detail, and motioned them off of the car.  Once they left, it was just me and the Creepy Cult of Personality on that car.  He looked me in the eye and opened his mouth as if to say something.  His breath smelled of the cigarette he had probably just smoked before entering the building.  I also detected a hint of the left over beer from last summer’s summit on racial diversity.  Instead of saying anything, he closed his mouth and created a concentrated grimace on his face.  After a moment of tightening up his face and squeezing his eyes shut real tight, a sound came out.  It just didn’t come out of his mouth.

That’s right people.  The President of the United States had just cut a juicy one in the elevator.  He then regained his calm, cool, collected look, walked off of the elevator car, and reached in to hit the “Close Door” button.  The door closed before I could escape the odoriferous emanations which had escaped the Presidential sphincter.

I think I read somewhere that dreams are supposed to represent the subconscious interpretation of what’s going on with the conscious.  If that’s the case, I would call my dream dead on.

Randy Tharp

TharpSter is a husband to one woman, a father to two kids, a master to two dogs, an occasional cubical occupant, and unable to make up his mind on an adequate theme for this website.

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