So here's my dream sequence from last night.
I woke myself up laughing, it was giggle-snorting really, and not a pretty sight.
This is why I believe in God; no one could have woken up mid guffaw like this after enduring the type of craptastic day that preceded this dream.
But, here I was, at 7am, executing what can only be described as an august imitation of a tickled horse.
The room pans, it's a sunny, almost cheery and fully packed cafeteria. I say almost because it is stocked with elderly people in various stages of declining health; the room is sunny and pleasant, the occupants agreeable enough but with the resigned peculiarity of the ancient and frail.
I'm an observer, I have no agency here. I could be a gnat droning about, a dallying sunbeam, or a mere particle of dust drifting through this scene with liesurable indifference before settling unostentatiously upon the nearest structure.
My commute comes to an inconspicuos halt near a table populated by three venerable gentlemen engaged in a rather one sided disputation.
Seated to the left is a hoary old chap confined to a wheelchair. He is lanky and bent and his lap is encompassed in one of those white covers that are a staple of medical institutions the world over; his ankles and slippered feet are splayed at awkward angles in the footrests. Having arranged his plate and eating utensils with careful deliberation, appearing to consider the futility of desert, he takes a bite and grunts irritably in the general direction of his tablemates, emanating an unpleasantness worthy of Ebenezer Scrooge.
The second old fellow sits at the center of the round table. His white hair is mad scientist long and his face is kindly, round, and slightly flushed. There's a mischievious hobbit like twinkle to his eyes, in fact, one could easily imagine him pondering the likelihood of second breakfast. He is enthusiastically stuffing his mouth, glancing intermittently at his two companions, alternating smiles and nods in either direction when it seems merited.
The third member of this aged party is clad in well worn, blue flannel pajamas, the type that smell like fabric softener and pipe tobacco, the kind that stays soft forever... of the variety that only the best grandpas wear. He is in the midst of an animated monologue; the fork in his right hand is jabbing the air zealously, each utterance punctuated with falling crumbs off of stainless tines.
The subject is pie.
Damn Good Pie.
Grandpa exclaims, " This pie is amazing! It's so dang good, I just can't get enough! What do you fellas think???"
Bilbo nods, smiles earnestly his cheeks full of the aforementioned pie. There was really no question in his mind, the pie was good.
Ebenezer's surly response, "Ehhh...It's ok."
Bilbo raises an eyebrow and Gramps is nonplussed, "Whaddya mean 'Ok'??? This pie is great! Probably the best pie I've ever had!" He looks to Bilbo who nods emphatically.
Scrooge doesn't budge, "It's ok man." he says thru hooded eyelids, "It's ok as far as pies go." He takes an unhurried bite of his mediocre pie.
Mr. Baggins gently shakes his head in disagreement as if to convey he thought his pie was clearly of superior quality. He took another bite, visibly relishing its crusty awesomeness.
Grandpa would not be swayed, he tried once more to elicit Ol' Scrooge's approval. "No sir, this aint any run of the mill pie. This is Damn. Good. Pie. C'mon, you know it's good!" he proclaimed in appeal to his comrade's better judgement.
The old curmudgeon straightened a bit in his seat, contemplated his mates respectively (each was eyeing him expectantly in return) and grabbed his pie with a fervour that was quite unanticipated.
"DAMMIT!" he hollered as his friends jumped, startled into open-mouth wonder.
"I GUESS I'M GONNA DIE ANYWAY..."
(bewildered gazes were exchanged)
"I MIGHT AS WELL DIE BY PIE!!!"
He consumes the offending dessert in one ferocious bite.
The hobbit spit his pie through his nose, and old man flannel launched his fork into parts unknown.
And that is the precise moment I awoke.
Where does this stuff come from?