18 August 2006

I had a dream

about Arlington a couple of nights ago. He'd stopped by for a drink and had gotten into the sherry.

And not the cooking sherry either; he was whacking the good, $1.99/gallon stuff (that I use to fortify my famous box-wines), as if it was wearing a hoody.

Not only that, but he was using my genuine 13th century Albanian lead-crystal Flintstone's jelly glasses; smuggled out of Tirana by the late Arch-pope Ludendorff at great personal risk, mind you, (I bought them at a gypsy's car boot sale in darkest Terre Haute, so their provenance is beyond question) and dashing the empties in the fireplace...


Well, to be fair, that may not have been him. I’ve never actually seen Arlington, so I’m mot sure. He may have been the other fellow in the onion-hat that was working on my computer. I asked if he was Arlington, but he merely answered “On.”

Now, If he was Arlington, I would have expected him to misspell (or misspeak) his response, turning “On” into “No” and yet I’ve always found him to be honest. The logical twists and turns of this paradox fairly hurt my brain. I woke up with one hell of a headache, only to find that the good sherry and most of my NyQuil gone, and there were shards of glass in my fireplace. Furthermore, the server room reeks of onion.

Was he here? Or was it those f!@#ing squirrels again?

I intend to take thrice my normal dosage of mushrooms tonight and get to the bottom of this!

And that's the way I likes it.