Dream: Head Shavings
Wed, Jan 13, 2010:
Huge black battle tanks parked along the road in rural British farming towns to defend them from radical environmentalists. The government didn't know which towns would be targeted, and the tanks were pretty obvious, so the radicals just picked other towns.
The environmentalists buried a couple of their female members (alive) in a farmer's garden as a protest of... something. I told them it would never work; they'd have to kill the people causing the problem. The environmentalists misunderstood and fired pistols into the garden, but the soil protected the buried women.
I visited my parents; their new house was in the same village as the protest.
Meanwhile, the environmentalists were beheading the other residents. Whenever I looked out the window, I saw British severed heads arguing with activists and with each other. Every head was fed neck-first into its own motorized cheese-grater, slowly transforming it into gruesome confetti.
I argued with a severed head that reminded me of Donald Rumsfeld and Wilford Brimley. I made another point, and he told me I was wrong. I was going to refute him, but just then his mouth was disappearing into the grater. I thought it would be rude to contradict him when he couldn't reply (and was about to die), so I let him have the last word.
The environmentalists didn't have anything against my parents, so they were calmly enjoying their retirement. My dad was excited that he finally had room to display some of his old treasures. He set a long knife on a display stand in its hard leather sheath. He told me it reminded him of my uncle Bob and my cousin Ron. I drew the knife; the eight-inch blade had deep serrations swept back like barbs, and it was bent in a U along its length, so both serrated edges faced the same direction, like one half of an alligator clip. The blade bent back under my thumb, then sprang back to straight.
I gave my dad a quizzical glance. "What would you do with this?" I asked.
"Oh, it's great for cutting cardboard boxes," he told me.
Huge black battle tanks parked along the road in rural British farming towns to defend them from radical environmentalists. The government didn't know which towns would be targeted, and the tanks were pretty obvious, so the radicals just picked other towns.
The environmentalists buried a couple of their female members (alive) in a farmer's garden as a protest of... something. I told them it would never work; they'd have to kill the people causing the problem. The environmentalists misunderstood and fired pistols into the garden, but the soil protected the buried women.
I visited my parents; their new house was in the same village as the protest.
Meanwhile, the environmentalists were beheading the other residents. Whenever I looked out the window, I saw British severed heads arguing with activists and with each other. Every head was fed neck-first into its own motorized cheese-grater, slowly transforming it into gruesome confetti.
I argued with a severed head that reminded me of Donald Rumsfeld and Wilford Brimley. I made another point, and he told me I was wrong. I was going to refute him, but just then his mouth was disappearing into the grater. I thought it would be rude to contradict him when he couldn't reply (and was about to die), so I let him have the last word.
The environmentalists didn't have anything against my parents, so they were calmly enjoying their retirement. My dad was excited that he finally had room to display some of his old treasures. He set a long knife on a display stand in its hard leather sheath. He told me it reminded him of my uncle Bob and my cousin Ron. I drew the knife; the eight-inch blade had deep serrations swept back like barbs, and it was bent in a U along its length, so both serrated edges faced the same direction, like one half of an alligator clip. The blade bent back under my thumb, then sprang back to straight.
I gave my dad a quizzical glance. "What would you do with this?" I asked.
"Oh, it's great for cutting cardboard boxes," he told me.