Bar Bee Cued

Yesterday night. We were at Brother Jimmy's BBQ, a place most people go in a last ditch effort to invite heart disease. I watched in horror as first Pris Killer, then Dynamo, shoved ENTIRE slices of lemon and lime into their mouths, devouring the entire rind in the process. I've always viewed rinds on fruit the same way I view shells on shrimp and plastic wrap on candy; something that is pretty to look at, fun to play with, and not to be eaten. Not wanting to be left out of this gastronomic Sprite inspired experiment, I nibbled on a lime. While the sourness of the fruit was enough to make my cheek hurt, the rind was exactly as I feared...it tasted like Pinesol would, if I ever had the urge to drink furniture polish. Perhaps, in their semi-piratical mindsets, they were just more worried about, and dedicated to, fighting off scurvy than I.

Due mostly to the amount of butter that had replaced the blood normally in my veins and arteries, my dreams last night were far from normal. The dream started off normal enough, with my mother driving our old, and now deceased, Cadillac, before succumbing to exhaustion/slow driveritis, allowing me to take wheel. I guided the car through the movie set city, towards the nonexistent Lexington Avenue bridge, going a little faster than the speed limit. Approaching the bridge, for some reason we got out and ran, and then we noticed the bridge had a huge ammount of human traffic. Weaving in and out of slower humans, I noticed the flashing lights of police cars. Though I hit my own breaks, moved all the way to the otherside, and stopped weaving, I couldn't avoid being caught for long, and soon had a ticket for speeding. SPEEDING! I was running!! Of course I was trying to go fast. I plead my case, and asked the officers if they'd ever heard of track and field or the Olympics, but all for naught.

Fast forward to a night club, where some skanky women were trying to make out with me because it was their birthday. I finally relented, giving one woman a birthday present she could always treasure. Next thing I knew, I was in Nick Lachey's limo, hanging with him and a few of my friends. We were having some deep conversations, until Nick would go in the back to make out with slightly homely 20 year olds. I realized Nick wasn't a bad guy, and he was pretty cool to hang out with. I told Nick and his homely harem of hoey chicks the speeding ticket story a few times, to much laughter. I couldn't wait to tell everyone the next day about my crazy night. It was while swimming at a surreal YMCA pool that someone noted none of this had happened, and I was dreaming. Made sense. That made me tell my girlfriend about the whole escapade, though I left out the birthday smooch. Turns out, I could have been honest with her, because she and everything else was a dream too.

The Matrix is one of the few things that rivals the strangeness of a hushpuppies-with-maple-butter induced dream within a dream. Treat this as a cautionary tale