Last night I dreamed that Chris from Some Guy's Blog and I went on a road trip in his blue, late-model Chevette. He had stopped at my boyhood home to pick me up but before leaving, he helped my mother (now deceased) to photograph a black Komodo Dragon that was sunning itself in our back garden.
What transpired next was a long montage of sprawling cityscapes and rolling, grassy plains. Chris didn't talk much but was satisfied to sing along with whatever was on the radio, belting out tunes off-key and inserting new lyrics that made references to poop and jellyrolls. I just stared out the window and watched the scenery go by.
We passed a horse farm and the fields were filled with emaciated Clydesdales that were yolked together two by two. One struggled to eat a patch of grass just out of it's reach as it couldn't pull the corpse of the other horse it was yolked to enough to make it. "That's Dick Cheney's horse farm," Chris said matter-of-factly. Just then the engine gave out and the car coasted to a stop in the driveway. "Oh shit," Chris muttered, "I hope the motherf*cker isn't at home!"
To our dismay, he was home. Cheney met us in the driveway with a shotgun and told us we could stay in the bunkhouse with "the band", and gave us the key. We unlocked the bunkhouse and went in to find a Canadian acapella group dressed in all orange polka uniforms, and they were as thin as the Clydesdales. "You have to help us escape!" they pleaded. "We've got a car, but it's out of gas," Chris explained. "We can siphon some from the tractor out by the barn," the band leader suggested. None of them knew how to syphon gasoline, so I did it and got a mouthful of gas for my trouble. The taste of it would linger in my mouth for the rest of the dream.
The whole time we're stealing Dick Cheney's gas, we can hear the occasional shotgun blast and the cries of wounded horses in the distance. We fill the Chevette and pack ourselves in like sardines. The crinolines of the girl on my lap kept tickling my nose as we drove away as fast as our little four-cylinder would go, leaving a plume of dust in our wake.
The dream I had last night has been related as it came. As for interpretation, I'll leave that up to you. I just know that I won't be eating Doritos before bed anymore, as it leaves the taste of gasoline in my mouth and the cries of dying horses ringing in my ears for the rest of the day.