Malaria Mondays – Un Will Fully

The contest for building the best robot brought in all sorts of competition to a gray city like environment. Top engineers from around the globe, arrived to showcase their best designs for the venue.

I stumbled wildly out from a dark alley, feet were moving but they felt heavy, arms were comatose, body was sluggish and swaying drunkenly; I was completely out of control and not quite myself. The third person view exposed me as Will Farrell, dressed in a white lab coat. “Go to hell!” I commanded a small street urchin, realizing even my voice was throaty with a hint of whine, just like Will’s.

On the way to the competition, I knowingly gathered bits of wire from the street, hunkered down at a truck-stop and impetuously assembled an electronic creation, hiding it under my coat.

“It was a device of the grandest design,” I thought with monomaniacal grin. “Sure to win me the competition.”

My bulky self arrived carrying a heavy covered bulge. I sat in a small plastic school chair on stage and carefully waited my turn to speak. The announcer pointed and I stood, brought out the device from under my labcoat with blinding speed, revealing a huge ticking time bomb! The crowd gasped… except one small boy.

“They want you to have a job substitute teaching,” said the small boy watching the spectacle.

“OK!” I said excitedly, dropped the bomb on stage and walked off.

The gleaming wide eyed children seamed to shudder when I entered the classroom. One kid asked what my name is. (This is where I experience what it is like to be insane.) I had no idea what my name was… then a thought bubble appeared above my head. Making the sound of a slide whistle as It projected my father, calling me a “bitch” and beating me.

“Uhhh… my name is Mr. Bitch.”

After much laughter from the students, a girl asked me how long I would be here teaching. Yet another slide whistle and a thought bubble appeared showing a birthday cake with some fat girl blowing out candles shaped like the number 16.

“16 fat girls”, I replied.

The classroom sequence kept repeating: A child’s question, followed by a random thought bubble, finishing with an obscure reply.

What are you going to teach us? — Pretty dwarves in dresses.

Why are you dressed in a lab coat? — MST3K (mystery science theater 3000) rocks!

As if a small amount of time passed in a photo montage, I was magically whisked away to an underground car park, surrounded by my stolen cars. Mark, and some very skinny shady Burt Reynolds look-alike thief, and I (remember I still look like Will Ferrell) were looking at a very cartoonie map of my hometown of Quincy (like the colorful maps at a theme park) and plotting our routes to transport my stolen cars to a different location. YES… we would transport the cars through Gullpie ranch road. The thief hopped into a car, Mark and I into another. We drove behind the thief through the car park and to the exit. He took a wrong turn and headed into downtown Quincy.

YOU IDIOT! Stay off the main road! That way goes past the police station!” I screamed to him from the other car.

He stuck his mustached face out the window and laughed, “No cop can catch me! YEEE HAWWW! Petal to the metal good buddy!”

We had no choice but to abandon him and turn the opposite way, So, after a few seconds of driving Mark made a call from his cell phone and I had a bad feeling and didn’t trust him.

“This map is terrible, we are lost,” he said. “I’m calling for directions.”

“That bastard must be calling the police,” I thought paranoidly.

“Yeah, they said our turn is around here some where.”

“Dirty stinking backstabber,” I mumbled inaudibly.

“There it is… but something’s wrong. The Gullupie Ranch sign has changed!”

The regular rectangular sign measures 1m x 2m, and has the words “Gullpie Ranch” in large brown letters with a friendly cream colored background. The other off shooting roads, have quaint carved wooden signs with cutesy names like “Willow Branch Way“. Now, the words “Gullpie Ranch” were crossed out with ominous red letters saying “Decrona Drive“ and the wooden signs were replaced by ruff metal ones repeating “Decrona Drive“ on every side street.

(For those of you who have no idea what Decrona is… I will give you some insight to my days before leaving Quincy. I was courting a nice Capricorn with the last name Decrona, who’s father is the Lt. police officer and chief of the local SWAT team. Kind of a scary guy for a derelict like me. — So, in order to not lose face, I called this girl and told her the dream. Then, asked if she wanted me to change the name or hide some details. She said, “It’s funny, go ahead and tell the dream.”)

Baffled and feeling double crossed by Mark, we drove up the road until reaching a large dark spooky house on a barren red clay hill. I scurried out of the car (no longer Will Ferrel but myself again). Ran up to the large front door of the house and threw it open without knocking. Within the doors there was a very odd series of doors with different ways of opening. (Like MST3K) Some would slide with a whoosh when pressing a button, others would open like clunky gates with a creak, but every door had some sort of mechanism that I could manipulate to release the door. After 6-8 doors I ran into a room with hundreds of dorm bunk beds. The boys that occupied the room were all shirtless, with shaved heads, speaking what sounded like German amongst each other. I backed out of the room slowly trying to figure out what was going on… an army of young German boys. I got to find my Capricorn! I finaly reached the living room. There I saw her covered with gray dust, forced to build a massive 6 foot gray brick structure, that resembled a large brick oven. The father was drinking a tropical umbrella drink in an easy chair, reading the newspaper. I grabbed her hand and she stopped working.

“We got to get outa here,” I said quietly, so the father wouldn’t hear me. “Something weird is going on.”

She simply stood there and blinked unknowingly as if brainwashed.

“Come on. Let’s go!” I pleaded.

I looked into her eyes, the windows to the soul, they cast a dull a glossed over, blank, foggy stare back at me. She was gone. My efforts were futile and I released her hand.

“Goodbye,” I whispered into her ear.

Then, exited the way I came in, through the many doors of the odd German concentration camp. Never looking back.

March 4th, 2008

Malaria Mondays – Schizophrenia

The time is upon us… as well as killer mosquito’s. So, once again we are tugging on the magical melofloquine’s tale. This dream takes place after both Mark and I took two pills, at the same time, because we forgot to take the other pill earlier in the day. The label read, separate doses by at least four hours. WHOOPS!

To get the full effect of my dream I must tell you our sleeping arrangement. We are currently living in an A-frame bungalow on an island in the gulf of Thailand. It is a pile…with a view of broken children’s toys, mo-peds on blocks, and raskely stray dogs running about. We are literally two naked children short of a Quincy trailer park, basically a roof over our heads, its fantastic! Mark is sleeping in the large bed with a huge pink mosquito net with frilly flower pattern and I am sleeping above him on a wooden shelf residing above the liquor storage for the bar, directly under the corrugated sheet metal roof. During the day, bright sunshine pours through the multiple cracks and holes in the floorboard and roof; mosquitoes pour through at night.

The dream started with me looking at a scattering of mug shots and photographs in a police station or some sort of observation room with a brushed metal table. I was in this establishment because during the previous day, I was running from a killer or escaped mental patient with horrible looking face. He was chasing me along some dark alley trying to stab me with a very military looking knife. I escaped and the killer fled into darkness, which brings me to the police station to find the psycho. Looking through the hundreds of photographs scattered on the table, I stumbled upon a vertical series of 5 photos taken at a photo booth. The first photo in the series, was the typical cheesy picture of Mark and I smiling, arms around each other. The next photo was very much the same except, he was no longer smiling. Each successive photo after that, showed him distancing himself away from me, with different proportions of his face distorting… His face seemed to melt and mold into a horribly disfigured being. His face turned a pasty white, and his skin flaked off in chunks in the same manner of a week old croissant. The hazel eyes and thin pink lips of Mark were closed forever and sewn shut with large diameter black thread. His short black hair grew to nipple length turning a dead dirty gray… It was him, the man who tried to kill me… it was Mark! Heat rushed up my chest, through my neck and into my head. Chills shot up my spine and into my head, starting a brain battle of fire and ice. I then experienced that feeling, like somebody is watching you and felt a warm breath on the back of my neck. My body spun around wildly forcing me face to face with my psycho murderer… Mark.

I then woke up; breathing heavily, caged in my white cloud of a mosquito net, eyed the thrashing Mark down in the bed below me, thought about our malaria medicine’s side effects (schizophrenia), pictured his knife, and listened to the scratching sounds behind my head. What? Scratching sounds?

Rolling over, I grabbed my headlamp and startled something by my head… the high pitched screech was tremendous, shaking every nerve in my body. Quickly my headtorch shot on and directly in the beam was a shrieking, foot long, plump, filthy rat, a foot from my face. My body had never moved so fast. “OHH NO! SCREW THIS CRAP!!” I screamed and dove back-first onto Marks bed, kicking off the ledge as I fell.

Not wanting to get back on the shelf with that monster, I stayed in bed with the possible schizophrenic killer from my dream. Needless to say, I was curled up on the corner of the bed as far away from both of them as was humanly possible.

In the morning, I vowed to capture the rat, that disturbed my peaceful environment. In the next post, I’ll tell you about the week long obsession with the rat entitled… “Moby Dick”.

January 28th, 2008

Malaria Mondays – Lesbian Lindsay

My dreams this monday were un-interesting. The good news is… I write other interesting dreams that have occured during previous Mondays, just in case something like this happened. The only reason this dream was not told a few weeks ago is because it is quite racy, but you are more mature than me and can handle it.

WARNING 
Patrons should not read if you have a history of heart problems, suffer from high blood pressure, are pregnant or nursing, or have a tendency to drool. You must be this tall to ride… If you are not this tall please get your parents permission before reading.
WARNING

My college mate Nick Ostini (who is going to join us on the trip) and I were in the middle of class listening to a design lecture, most likely about font serifs, when he nudged me and pointed to a glass window. In the window was our very own Lindsay Davis making out porno-style with a short blond haired Jessica Washburn look alike. With huge grins, we completely ignored the lecture and watched the action in astonishment.

I was eating lunch in the noisy highschool caffeteria alone when Lindsay wondered up to the table and sat next to me.

“Wholly moley Lindsay! I saw you making out with that girl.”
She replied with a clever smirk, ” Do you know what the funny thing about short girls is?”
“No…what?”
“Their pee smells funny.”
“What! You are crazy Lindsay. Your telling me…aahhh! You have got to be kidding… at school!”
“Yep…during third period after soccer practice.”
“I gotta get outta here, you are too much… see you later!”

While walking down the hallway to the bathroom, I saw Lindsay  making out with different girl, pressing her up against a locker.  Trying to ignore them I thought to myself…”She is nuts, I cant believe she is doing this around school… but then again, maybe I should be more like Lindsay and makeout with everybody.”

Still walking down the hallway I came across a huge wooden door it instantly swung open revealing church-like building with a huge vaulted ceiling. There were two doors in the far left that had bathroom written on them and didn’t illustrate if they were male or female. In the center of the room there was a blackboard with writing that said “The ballista of San Ramon was taken over by Lord Voldermont on 1/2/1934.” A  bathroom door swung open and Chuck Leonhardt (Marks father) swasheyed out holding a newspaper.

“Hey Charles…are you enjoying the church? Did you know it was taken…” and before I could finish… he responded “By lord Voldermont in (he spoke the numbers in some made up french language) oof douw ninquatrene.” then wondered off with a wave.

Needing use the bathroom, I walked into the door Chuck left from. Inside was a rusted metal urinal troth like at game stadiums. Just when I was going to use the bathroom; some blond pregnant lady burst in, jumped up and sat on the troth.

“This is the boys bathroom.” I said.
She replied with a seductive smile, “Your cute… whats your name?”
“…uhh”
“Come on don’t be scared…How old are you?”
“uh I gotta go… to the boys bathroom.”
“Just go here, I dont bite.”

I ran outside the bathroom and it was a female workout center and everybody was in purple leotards with black spandex underneath. Kaley Clement’s sister Heidi was there.

Heidi asks, “What happened with you and that woman?”
“Nothing!” I said, “I didn’t even get to use the bathroom.”
“Typical Brad, always being so secretive about his love life… it gets quite boring. Just tell what happened. We all want to know.”

“Nothing happend!” and I quickly darted outside the school and Heidi chased me holding a plate full of cut watermelon. “Do you want some watermelon?” she asked.

THE END

October 16th, 2007

Malaria Mondays – R.E.A.R.

Robots, Evil, Assassins, & Renegades
Lariam (melfloquine) is not readily available in Peru so… I had to switch malaria medicine; something called Aralen (chloroquine), that also creates vivid dreams and can lead to schizophrenia. Pills taste terrible… but the dreams are quite intense.

This dream has a setting and character development, which is normally created through plot. Although, my dream state created well established characters… without interaction and plot. So I must describe the characters before the tale is told. The order of events have been changed to make a congruent storyline… but events themselves are as witnessed.

Setting:
The country is rapidly changing by an independent source of power and corruption, from within government. Powers held by a corrupt official, lead to the well planed mass murder and takeover of congress… Thus creating an omnipresent dictatorship empire. (Yep…kinda like starwars) Cover-ups and secrecy lead to one mans revolution against the empire.

Characters:
Hero: Dressed in a rouge road-warrior leather/ripped jeans punk style, this man is a vigilante supposedly fighting against the empire. A quiet mysterious demeanor, mixed with rash congealed decision making, make for a well rounded protagonist. Has a very inexperienced skinny side kick with a red cape, who doesn’t ever follow commands (Looks and listens just like my brother, Jaramie).

Robot-H?: Shaped cardboard referegerator box with wild flaying arms, with human like emotions created by an error in its programing, owned by the Empire. Witnesses the entire death of every parliament member, the cover-up, and informs the hero through a cyberlink.

Hired Hot Blonde Assassin:  Super curvy short blond haired assassin, wearing tight black leather spandex. (there isn’t a drawing… sorry boys)  She was saved once by the Hero, but the Empire clouded her vision though brainwashing; programing her to hunt and kill him. Has a frail cyborg princess following her around, wanting to know more about human interaction. (no JOKE – I don’t make this stuff up!)

The Dream:
Sliding doors open and I enter a small enclosed elevator, as Robot-H. This is a malfunctioning detention center for robots owned by the Empire; there are going to be rigorous robot tests. Technicians show up in a screening room and I couldn’t let them know I knew about the takeover of congress, or have human like emotions. I asked how they were doing… crap, I already screwed up, robots don’t care how people feel. Replying with only a puzzled look they then pointed to an eyechart-like group photograph with every parliament member. “Name them.” Never seeing these people in my life how could I possibly know them? Oh yeah… I started spouting off random binary code - 1001010, 11001, 101011. “Good,” they said. I was getting away with it, until something made me laugh out loud… damn, I’m boned. ”Security! Detain this robot and probe his memory!” They discovered that I sent a video to the Hero containng the truth behind the takeover and video footage of the Hero blowing up the Empire’s new established headquarters. Robot-H Terminated…

Our hero is tracking a fierce warrior of the Empire through a drainpipe, using some kind of gage. As they burst out into the sunlight the nerdy sidekick questions the Hero, (Imagine Jaramie’s voice) “Why are we out here… I am bored… Lets go home… your dumb… my brothers a loser.(Just kidding about that last one.)”
“Be quiet…why don’t you just go home.” says the frustrated Hero.
“Fine then, I will!” shouts the sidekick and marches off in the opposite direction.

Sitting up high on a hill is the blond haired assassin with a scoped sniper rifle, carefully watching a drainpipe below. Through her scope she eyes the face of her victim for the first time, it is the Hero. Painfull synapse flashes overwhelm her mind. “AHHH! The pain…” she screams while dropping her gun.
The frail cyborg by her side asks, “What is the problem?”
“I know him… from somewhere…Ahhh!…. but where?”
Just then, another rival assassin shows up in red spandex with wild black frizzy hair. Most likely sent by the Empire in-case the blonde failed. Her red spandex glides siftly upon the sloped hill in the direction of our hero, gun in hand. “Damnnit!” huffs the hot blonde and hops down off the cliff.

“HEY BOY!” screaches a ferocious omnious voice 50 feet up on a cliff plateau. A very tall buff gothic clown, dressed in a long black cape with spikes on his shoulders. This is the man the Hero was tracking. In his right hand is a large battle-axe… in his left the skinny sidekick. “I THINK THIS BELONGS TO YOU!” The warrior clown then thrusts his battle axe through the boys chest.
“Noooo!” screams the Hero. “He didn’t want to be here anyways, its all my fault, i’ve killed him.”
“HA HA HA!” booms the dark warrior with an sharp nasty teethy grin.
“You Bastard!” the Hero yells… reveling a small battle axe under his coat, cocks back and hurls it in slow-motion towards the clown warrior. Slicing his head clean off right at the puffy clown neck thing.

The red spandex assassin is carefully watching the events with the clown warrior from the bushes, and takes aim; finger ready to pull the trigger. BANG… a shot is fired. The red assassin drops dead, revealing the hot Blonde right behind her, smoking pistol in hand. There is a feeling that the Blonde realizes the Hero had once saved her life.
“Why did you do that?” the cyborg asks. 
“Everything in life is planned and there are no mistakes… soon you will realize this.” she says they walk off in the opposite direction down a orchardy hill.

THE END

(I woke up right after the dream… around 6:00 AM and started taking extensive notes for about an hour so I would remember most of the details. Sorry it is so long and involved.)

October 10th, 2007

Malaria Mondays – Senior Trip to Spain

All of the 2001 Quincy High graduating class boarded a BUS to (Spain, Italy or Portugal ) some Spanish speaking European country. All 70 of us fit on a half bus… The only thing I remember about the journey is Bryce Piva getting kicked off for being to wild.

Everybody was super excited about going to a Catholic Sermon at a huge cathedral. The benches that usually exist at churches were replaced by rows and rows of baseball stadium seating. Like a large auditorium the Priest was on the center floor below the stage. He was a skinny frail old man with sunken eyes… Similar to Mr. Burns, a Simpson’s character, but with a rounded smaller nose; dressed extravagantly in a black leather stitched Jedi robe.

I sat to his left in the front row, waiting for the Priest to begin and was constantly searching for any familiar face (Well that’s kind of true… I was actually trying to find a girl that I was trying to impress in a previous dream that night.) but found nobody.

I was snapped out of my search by a huge booming voice that sounded similar to Steve Martin… The priest spoke slowly about US politics and Bashed Bush (This is because I had a long conversation with a chess playing French girl from London during dinner that night about Bush) I noticed his outfit changed slightly… the robe became shorter, revealing his skinny legs, and he had some sort of flaming staff in his hand. He walked by and touched me on the hand as if I knew him.

Then, all of a sudden, like a Vegas pop music concert he ran backstage and appeared in another outfit. His vestibules were created from the hides of wild animals and had parts of them dangling from his hood and neck. The jaws of a shark were draped over his shoulders like a necklace, teeth up (we saw this in Ecuador). From the waste down he had on a Scottish Kilt and Old English shoe gators with bare feet holding wild sporadic blue feathers on the sides. On his humped back lye a backpack with two ornamental candle holders complete with large waning flames.

He jammed himself into this wooden bamboo tiki hut, as if it was a podium and started to speak. As he boomed on about… what seemed like religion, and I had a bad feeling about the flames and the wooden hut. Nobody seemed to notice the flames had caught the straw roof on fire, which burst instantly out of control; sending his wild animal vestibules and him into flames. The crowd started laughing as if it was all planned but I knew better.

“STOP, DROP, and ROLL!” I screamed while leaping off my chair; woven wool holy blanket in hand. Trying to suffocate the fire was useless because the blanket had holes in it and created a larger flame engulfing the entire blanket. Failing with the blanked I rolled the priest into a patch of carpet finally extinguishing the flames. Looking back into the crowd, I tried eying the girl again to see if she was going to be impressed… she wasn’t there and the crowd looked upset as if I wrecked their fun.

I was instantly transported to a golf tournament where I didn’t have adequate clubs and couldn’t hit my final put. I sprinted off to find a putter before it was my turn.  Some lady yelled “Here kid take this!”… and threw a club to me… I sprinted back and looked at the club. It magically transformed into a useless lock cutter. Damn… then I eyed some guy walking down the sidewalk and grabbed his club as I passed him. Looking back… the man instantly ripped off his shirt… I just stole Hulk Hogan’s putter and he chased me back to the green. But it was too late, the game was over and maids were changing the putting green grass like a bed sheet knocking my ball off the field.

October 2nd, 2007

Malaria Mondays – Paul’s Dream

Both Mark and I had terribly boring dreams. His featured himself building a hydroponics lab in Quincy. While mine justified that listing to an uninteresting person talk for hours isn’t worth writing about… not to say I’m interesting or anything. (BTW – Thanks for reading)

So, without further ado or his permission… here is a dream from a chill English guy we met in Montanita, Paul. He told me this after I let him in on our malaria Monday dreams. At the time he was also jacked up on malaria pills and codeine to help him sleep. Naturally his subconscious emotions were heightened. The dream started when he met the perfect girl, the girl of his dreams (ha), for lack of a better word “the one”. She was perfect in every way… beautiful, smart, funny, you name it and she was it. They hit it off right away and went frolicking in the fields for what seemed like days just laughing and having a grand ole time. He had never felt this good about someone so new to him… in fact this was a completely made up person. Sure she might have had traits which he admired in other women but this was a new person entirely. It was love at first sight and he had never been happier.

Holding hands running and laughing they chased each other up a few flights of a circular staircase. Somehow she lost her footing and slipped over the side of the staircase about five floors up. Flying over the top of the railing he desperately dove to grasp her hand like in all those Hollywood movies… but missed. In horror, he helplessly watched the woman he loved tumble to her death. His desperate eyes were locked in to her falling weeping eyes as her head smashed into a banister 4 flights down, sending her body flailing mercilessly in tumbles to the floor below. The collision knocked out all of her teeth, which fell like a dreary rain upon her corpse. Panting down the stairwell like a rabid rabbit… he threw himself upon her now fully decomposed skeleton and wept.

“The range and realism of emotions that I felt were quite powerful… I couldn’t believe it was a dream… I forced myself out because the dream was so horrendous.” – PAUL

If you’re reading this Paul… if I screwed up on anything just comment to let me know and thank you very much.

September 25th, 2007

Malaria Mondays – Free Spirit

At this hostel/bar/restaurant that we are staying at. I was busy away making gin & tonics without the gin, because the Tanqueray was locked up in a glass case or tonic. Like a mad scientist I was forcing carbonation into regular tap-water with petri dishes and bunsen burners… But alas, I couldn’t get it to work. Then all of a sudden some crazy frizzy blond haired lady (similar looking to Jamie Williams mother…for those of you in the know) bursts in the room demanding directions to Quincy, California from Ecuador. Well I spring into action and quickly gave her directions… “Go up two blocks and take a right its the first door on the left.” She thanked me by giving me a 1983 blue Sears Roebuck Free Spirit bicycle (Identical to my beloved beater road bike) and promised me to her oldest niece (Who just so happens to be the beautiful Capricorn listed in the About Me section of the website). Several people comment on the gearing of the bicycle saying, “Wow check out that gearing… That’s pretty fancy gearing… etc.” To which I disagreed, “No the hubs are different styles!” each time it was mentioned.

All of a sudden Mark and I are camping on a beach near power-lines, playing hackysack. Mark was terrible… every-time I toss it to him he tried to kick it as hard as possible and missed. Not being very fun to play I ditch Mark and find some old men who are hackin’ with a coin. There is this move where someone would roll the hackysack on to the top of the foot and flick it up. This was impossible with the coin so I would pick it up and toss it to one of the old men but he would instantly catch it and put it in his pocket. I tried explaining that they must kick it when I throw it but they didn’t speak English. They just kept putting it in their pocket… I was running out of patients… and change.

Frustrated with these old men, I hopped into a car with both characters from Flight of the Conchords and drove through fields that looked to be somewhere in Vermont. The shorter guy needed a bike but I told him,”The hubs were different.” and he didn’t want it. “It has great gearing!” I exclaimed. Nope… OK we’ll find you a different bike. We drove up to this snowy resort while I am finishing this joke to the taller guy… I don’t remember the joke but the punchline was “…because the snow is white.” He was cracking up and told me I was one funny son of a bitch. I was skipping along the snow with the guys, very happily, when Kaley Clements rode up with his nice road bike. I asked him if the short guy from Flight of the Conchords could have it. He was going back to Korea anyways and quickly folded up the bike into a small stuff sack and gave it to him.

“Where are you going now Kaley?” I asked.
He responded, “To Quincy to hook-up with these three broads.”
“COOL… who?”
“Some lady promised her three nieces to me.
“Not the oldest right?”
“Yeah especially her.”

…Then I woke up.

September 17th, 2007

Malaria Mondays – Ducktales

This dream is simple regarding plot aspects but it is overwhelming in setting and characters. Familiar with the early 90s Disney television show “Ducktales”? There is a 5 part episode entitled “The Treasure of the Golden Suns”, where Scrooge McDuck gets gold fever over a treasure map deep in the jungle to the Temple of Seven Suns. Which just happen to be made by ancient Mayans out of solid gold. It was one of my favorite episodes. Mostly because of the addition of a new antagonist to the Ducks, this buzzardy looking goofy like dog with a huge mustache and trench-coat. Guess what ladies and gentlemen… He was also the bad guy in my dream; although part of the time he would shapeshift into my good bud Brett Marty. The dream involved me looking for some artifact and solving puzzles along the way… similar to Nicolas Cage in National Treasure. Except, in the dream I don’t remember solving any puzzles just thinking I was really good at it. The mustached Dog was also very good at solving these puzzles but he liked to chase women around, giving me and edge over him. He had some sack of gold dust and dove into a hole in the wall under a bed in the hostel. I followed him and while he was talking to some woman I traded him a painting for the gold sack. (For those of you familiar with the Chicken Shack there is a “hidden object” behind one of the paintings.) SO… the last thing I recall in the dream is not being able to find a hiding spot for the gold sack because it was pulsating and growing larger… and the mustached dog was chasing me. I´ve included an artists rendition of the bad-guy for your viewing pleasure.

September 11th, 2007

Malaria Monday – Tennis Champ

Mark and I took our first dose of malaria medicine and my already chaotic dreams were enhanced with HD technology. Excitement was dancing like a leaf in the breeze for the upcoming Delhi-London tennis championship. Being recently adopted by an Indian family, resembling the parents from “Bend it like Becham” I was a sure bet for quadruples (four on four) tennis. Utilizing my real life skills from tennis, heated badminton matches between former roommates, and cat-like reflexes I knew our Indian side had a great chance of beating these limy bastards. But even with all my skills… there was a catch… and wardrobe problem holding back our victory.

While talking with excited women fans before the game, I noticed something peculiar about my specially made white and black checkered patterned shorts… there was no button for the fly hole and my penis kept protruding out the slit. Shoving it deep within my trousers did nothing as every movement would again reveal my little buddy. As fans gocked I payed no attention and continued talking and being cocky (pun intended) , about our sure victory. The bell rung and with an arrogant stride, I entered the court. Flood lights reveled a field littered with trash and dirt, in addition too my aging overweight sloth teammates and hard chiseled big chested athletic Rodger Federer and friends opponents. We didn’t stand a chance.

Details of the match are fuzzy, but I knew they were loaded with high octane intensity. The game came down to the fial serve, delivered by the hard hitting antagonists, directed at me. As the ball spiraled in the air in slow motion, I realized my newly acquired Native American headband came loose. The ball is streaking its way toward me…when I decide to put my racket down and reattach my headband. The ball bounced a few feet ahead of me and pounded me in the chest. whistles blew and the game was over… the British have won… or so I thought. The elderly fat man on my side debated the issue with the lethargic ref. “Let me check too see if his racket was on the ground” said the ref, in the thickest AM/PM accent possible. He then got up to consult what looked to be an old woman sewing circle and returned to his podium. He sat for a moment and let out a sigh, “Ok, hit it to him again.” The crowed roared and lit up the now muddy court. Now was my chance. Racket… Check. Headband… Check. Penis protrusion… Check. Bring it on! The racket was sung and the ball shot off like bullets at Columbine. I looked down where my racket was and it was now a baseball glove. Knowing that I couldn’t catch it. I discarded the glove and thought to punch the ball. With one massive karate type blow the ball ricoshade off my lower arm and bounced into my head. The boos were deafening and I was ridiculed off the court, never to pick up a racket again. Moral of the dream…?

September 3rd, 2007