saint_monkey

i had a dream, where i was trapped in an auditorium. terrorists came in, and they wanted to locate someone in the room... a blond man in a red tibetan shirt, presumably to shoot him. at that moment a "call to prayer" came over an old high-school loudspeaker mounted on the wall (next to a clock and a portrait of walt whitman, i might add,) and as everyone turned towards Quibla and prostrated themselves, i pushed the guy they were looking for out of a second story window, figuring he'd have a better chance. the terrorists noticed, and they took me into another room, where suddenly the terrorists became mobsters, ala the sopranos, but they still were going to cut off my hands. however, they were using a chinese biotechnology firm to do it, subcontracting, i presume. everyone was cheerful and corporate, and dressed up in white smocks. before they began, in typical efficient corporate fashion, they wanted me to enter my email address and phone number into their database. (i guess this would be difficult for me to accomplish after they cut off my hands) so they took me into a sterile white room with a pristine little white imac, and i entered my email address and phone number (i put "nospam" ahead of the domain name, and i mistyped my area code.) as i entered them, the english characters grouped themselves into chinese characters. i was impressed, knowing that chinese has many ways of writing the same phonetics, and my name would be difficult to translate, especially for a computer. i wanted to pencil down the character for "spam" figuring it would be handy to have, but they bustled me out of the room and into the next, which turned out to be the waiting room of my old childhood dentist, dr. harper, who would apparantly be removing my hands. at this point i became truly distressed, not because of the impending hand removal, because if anyone is going to cut off my hands, it had better be doctor harper. all manner of horrible dental experiments have gone on in my mouth, financing second homes, boats, and jaguars for a virtual fleet of dentists and orthodontists (including the removal of eight perfectly good teeth that were for lack of a better term, passively resisting,) and doctor harper has never, ever, inflicted even a second of discomfort. (plus he had the best nitrous, it smelled of popcorn because he popped popcorn in the room where the tanks were kept,) but i was distressed because, at the end of dr, harper's visits, one could take a dip in a cardboard box in his closet, which contained plastic dinosaurs. how was i going to pick one with no hands?