H. Turgid Smith


Before it happened my dreams were as dull as my life, a bad script under the supervision of a drunken Hollywood director. My wet dreams were dry and would end with her taking off her clothes just as the fire alarm went off. Or I would decide to get a teaching degree because I thought it was a great opportunity to make a lot of money fast. In one dream I was walking Spot and my pooper scooper baggie exploded all over me. In another I dreamed I was at the car wash and the brushes refused to serve me because my vehicle was dirty. Then there was the time I dreamed I waited in line at the post office for over an hour. When I reached the counter, the clerk slammed the window down in my face because he didn't like my socks.. Then there was the one where someone spiked my Slim Fast with whole milk. I even dreamed my mother named me Osama.

That was all before I saw the infomercial. PerfaDream. Only $29.95. Available only through this offer. Money refunded if not completely satisfied. End nights of frustration and sleep more restfully. Developed by the finest Swiss sleep specialists. You must act now!

PerfaDream arrived a week later in a plain brown package, a vial of tiny yellow pills and a list of ingredients with chemical names a yard long. I couldn't wait to hit the hay.

The first night I was hiding in Nicole's yard. When OJ showed up, I wrestled him to the ground, took away his knife, stole his Bruno Mali's, and accepted the sexual favors of his ex-wife as reward.

The next night I sang the Star Spangled Banner at Super Bowl 24 then put on my uniform and ran for 200 yards. The crowd was still chanting my name when I saw the terrorist in the upper deck rise with the grenade launcher. I nailed him with the miniaturized pistol I kept concealed in my shoulder pads.

It went on like that for two glorious weeks until I ran out of pills. Then the sad part happened. My re-order form came back in the mail--Undeliverable. Occupant departed. Left no forwarding address.

I went into a tailspin. My chin was dragging my shoelaces. I could barely get the glue straight on the signs I pasted on billboards at work. The boss wanted to kill me when one of the billboards showed Santa delivering toys in a g-string. Then I noticed something major.

All the stuff that used to be reserved for dreamland began happening in real life, except bad. I went to Subway for a sandwich and the train took off and left me 72 blocks up in the Bronx. Spot held a gun on me and demanded rib eye. There was a knock on my door in the middle of the night and Tiny Tim was standing there with his ukulele singing "Tiptoe Through the Cow Patties." I took my car to the garage and the mechanic removed my appendix. My mother called and told me she was suing me for being so ugly.

I was desperate. Something had to be done. All I could think of was more PerfaDream. I searched the internet and pharmacies. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. That's when I remembered the pamphlet that accompanied my original vial. There it was a little program for better dreams without pills. I decided to act.

The concrete bunker I built under my condo has concrete walls sixteen feet thick. No phone, no fax, no E-mail. The pizza delivery guy has standing instructions what to leave me each week. There's even a year's supply of beer and Doritos.

OK I admit it's boring by day, but last night Spot and I climbed Mt. Everest and were feted in major capitals of the world. Meanwhile Jennifer Lopez keeps calling, and my Coca Cola stock has split three times.

Tonight I'm hoping to hot air balloon over the North Pole. Britney Spear will be in the basket with me. When we hit ground, Spot will be offered a starring role in a Hollywood flick, and my mother will definitely call and apologize.

The bottom line? I've learned something important. Daytime is for losers. As for me, make mine snoozyville.
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