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digitaldiscipline · 8 months

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Dreamshit with sequels

So, recurring dreams are pretty common for me, but "let's continue last night's dream tonight, one day later in dreamtime" is a new one.

So, the sketchy part of town and the unsavory homeboys were back, but were shoved to the background by two of their girlfriends, both of whom thought I was the sexiest thing on two legs, and were extremely forward and creepy about it in a dingy diner, where they buttonholed me, a dude who looked like a younger Hank Azaria, and Leslie Nielsen as Frank Drebin, and who wanted selfies with me and Hank.

The bigger girl (Jenny) pretty much just bodied Leslie out of the way to sit next to me, and the smaller, feistier one (... also Jenny) was taking the selfies and forcibly inserting herself onto my lap, and was both impressed and pissed off that I immediately clocked her as "You like guys with dark hair and blue t-shirts" because that's what both Hank and I were wearing, and she left in a huff (the view of her daisy dukes was, admittedly, pretty good).

I got into a vintage squad car with Frank/Leslie, had the requisite "Frank!" "Drebin!" "You're both right," exchange with Priscilla Presley and Ricardo Montalban, and were off.

While we drove around to the Police Squad! soundtrack (and visiting a sketchy redneck's trailer, where he accidentally-on-purpose shook up a couple of cans of Budweiser and sprayed me with them, so I spent the next dream-hour smelling like beer), a couple of nameless female officers were surprising a different criminal in a ludicrously oversized bed (they were pretending to be sex workers of some sort), which resulted in him nearly hacking off the brunette's leg with a machete before taking three rounds to the face from both of them, whereupon they tried to make good their escape, but a bow from one of their frilly babydoll outfits got hooked on a bit of medal and was dangling as very obvious evidence of their having been there (like the blood and corpse weren't enough), which is when I came in to grab it.

All cops are bastards, and apparently, that includes me.

When Leslie and I got back to the car, we had to decide who drove, since he was woozy and I smelled like a brewery, and I ended up behind the wheel. Unfortunately, we ended up taking a corner on a wet road too quickly, and ended up spinning ... and spinning... and spinning... and spinning... down the street, no matter what I did (brakes, gas, steer into it, steer out of it, let go and let Jesus take the wheel), ultimately crashing into a mansion's back yard, where Sandra Bullock was having a Tupperware party, and was justifiably annoyed by what we'd done to her fancy fence before we wandered off while she went back to hostessing.

(muddled/forgotten bits here, where the tone changed from grim and gory procedural to very Police Squad! slash party flick)

Assorted plot points piled up, as directed by Zucker/Abrams/Zucker:

Leslie and I stumbled into a Presidential address, and I was mistaken for some dignitary or other and hustled backstage, where the guy playing the President (your generic older white dude with good hair) was doing a more-polite version of TFG and showing Top Secret footage to anyone nearby on his cell phone before stepping through the curtain and behind the podium.

I ducked down a hallway and through some more curtains into a yoga class filled with cosplayers, and had to mime my way through the poses as I tried to cross the room.

I was apparently caught on camera in both places, and recontextualized as some kind of street urchin, so I got recognized and applauded when I stumbled through another curtain into a very fancy restaurant, one of those places with lots of glass, white marble, and live plants.

I just wanted a cup of coffee, which I don't think I managed to get before leaving and heading back to the Mean Streets Of Wherever The Fuck This Is.

An upstairs apartment (at the recurring complex party house) was burgled, and key notes about a revolutionary software development were destroyed/lost, and the woman who lived there was justifiably pissed off about it.

I was still, unaccountably, the sexiest thing on two legs to every woman around, which made trying to make my way through the bar/restaurant area awkward and frustrating, because I was trying to do anything but get laid constantly (dream me is a complete dumbass).

This had the knock-on effect of The Jennies showing up and stepping to anyone else showing an interest in me, which got really awkward when Smaller Jenny's husband and six year old showed up, and she followed me into an almost-empty section of the restaurant, straddled my lap, and made it clear what she wanted, despite my protestations that there was a very nice family trying to eat dinner literally two tables away. (Her butt felt as good as it looked; dream-me may be a dumbass, but my hands had to go somewhere.)

I was finally able to extricate myself by finding The Jennies a couple of random bros to act as surrogate chew toys, which, unfortunately(?) meant I was fair game for the burgled woman, who offered a combo platter of seduction and sleuthing, which turned out pretty well for everyone, because we found a spare copy of the notes tucked inside a small metal canister, along with enough evidence for her to ascertain which of her rivals stole it.

At that point, I went back downstairs and into the street outside, where I had a superb view of her firing an RPG into an apartment a block away, presumably the now-former home of her now-dead rival.

Back inside to confront her about it, I met her and a woman who looked a lot like her coming downstairs in matching blue and pink latex catsuits; they were sisters and had plans for me, but were briefly distracted by their mother showing up and wanting to join the party.

Yours Truly then begged off of having a foursome with three hot brunettes because, as previously noted, DUMBASS.

I was just trying to find a quiet booth to sit the fuck down for a minute, when a pretty blonde woman materialized out of a dark corner to say, "Do you know who the hot, drunk guy I made out with last night was?" "Uh.... you're gonna say it was me, aren't you?" "Mmm hmmm."

We went upstairs, talked to the guy whose apartment we were about to bone in, told him we'd watch his dog, and closed the door.

Then the literal credits rolled, over a montage of everyone in the "cast" walking down a country road and occasionally playing Double Dutch, including a mid-credits scene where I met up with Rahul Koli wearing a headband and unfortunate haircut that prompted me to tell him he looked like Ben Stiller, and he was as nonplussed as you'd expect.

HWAET THE FUCK.

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