So I had this dream...

No, not THAT dream...

So last night, I'm all crashed out hard asleep, and I start having this dream. Now, I don't remember the beginning or middle parts, but they're not in any way pertinent to this story I'm about to unfold here, so I'm not too worried about that. What I can remember is that it was one of those crazy, twisted dreams that takes you down some winding road of unrelated events that all seem perfectly related to each other, because it's a dream, and everything in dreams makes sense. Like the ones where you're eating spaghetti with Morgan Freeman or whatever, and you somehow end up fighting a dragon with a railgun in a totally different time and place about ten minutes later, and it all somehow makes perfectly fine damn sense. You know, that kind of dream. But once again, that's not the part of the story that matters.

So anyway, somehow, I end up playing outside linebacker for the Chicago Bears. And it's in an actual, by-god NFL game, but for some reason, it's being held in what I'm pretty sure was a high school gymnasium, like on a basketball court and everything. Don't ask me why - It was a dream. It was apparently taking place this year, because I totally remember that Hunter Hillenmeyer was lined up in the middle, indicating that Brian Urlacher was all arm-crippled off to the side somewhere. It might be the only time someone's dream of NFL glory has in any way involved Hunter Hilenmeyer. But I digress. I can't remember who we were playing, but I'm assuming it was the Vikings, because I remember that the other team had a really good running back that I was all nervous about having to go up against. And sure enough, the one play that happens in this game, they hand off to that dude. And he's all heading outside to my left, and I manage to come over from the opposite side of the play, put a big hit on him, wrap him up in textbook fashion, and drop him with a perfect form tackle, and all this is crazy, because when I actually played in high school, I only played offense, because I couldn't tackle for shit. But I made the tackle, dammit, and the fame and glory were mine.

Or they might have been mine, had I not woke up like immediately following the play.

Imagine this, but in a high school gym, and from the perspective of the dude next to this dude.
And possibly involving Morgan Freeman and some dragons.

You see, back in real-life, three-dimensional world, where I work at Walmart and don't fight that big, gold wolf-dude from Power Rangers with a sword that shoots tornadoes or whatever other kinds of crazy crap happens when I'm in brain-screensaver mode, I was still all crashed out hard, and Sarah was in a similar state about a foot away. And at that final, intense moment where I laid the hit on the dude I'm assuming was Adrian Peterson... Well... I kind of, sort of, in a way... laid a half-speed, from-a-laying-down-position version of the same hit... on her. I fucking tackled my girlfriend while she slept . Like imagine a sleeping dude laying on his side who just kind of lurches forward and lays some bizarre sort of clubbing blow on a woman sleeping right next to him. That's basically what happened. At the moment of impact, I woke up instantly, frozen in horror, realizing that I just unknowingly used my special lady friend as some sort of twisted tackling dummy, and fortunately for me, she never actually woke up to realize what had happened and just sort of went "mmmmmm" and kept right on sleeping. Thinking as quickly as anyone who had just committed domestic violence in his sleep could think, I just held my arm there where it came down, like it was just a thing I meant to do - Like I wanted to get all snuggled up, but I wanted to get all snuggled up RIGHT NOW, GODDAMMIT, so instead of just scooting over and draping my arm over her, I kind of jumped over (flopped, really) and gave her a big hammering forearm of the same kind that Big John Studd might have given to Hulk Hogan. In hindsight, I'm just glad that I wasn't laying a few inches further away in a couple of directions, or I'd be not typing this right now from one of those computers they don't let you use when you've been thrown in jail for forearming a sleeping woman in the throat.

Anyway, I've never really been into the whole dream-interpretation thing, but somehow, deep down, I think this all really means that it's time to fire Lovie Smith.

Rundown of Recent Events

Haven't posted in a while, (ha, like that's new) and I'm not yet sleepy enough to attempt going to bed, so here's what's been going down lately:

Me and Sarah totally got an apartment together, and it's totally rad and I feel like an adult and stuff. I kinda feel bad though, because I've had a huge head start on crap accumulation, so my crap outnumbers hers like forty-to-one, and it's like an apartment full of my crap with only trace amounts of hers. I'd have pictures, but the place is pretty much a shambles right now, and the empty-apartment photos from a week ago are on a camera I can't find that connects to the computer with a cable I can't find. We'd invite y'all over to hang out, but once again the place is a shambles, I don't trust you creepy internet types, and there is basically nowhere to sit. We got a beanbag chair, and that's about it. We gotta work on that. Maybe just throw down some mats and act like it's some sort of Asian thing. I dunno. Overall, I must say that it is nice to live somewhere with more than one window, a double sink, air conditioning capable of actually cooling the place down on hot days, no dripping ceilings, and actual separate rooms. Also, no creepy next-door neighbor covered in really prison-looking tattoos asking me if I smell something dead in the parking lot. And no crazy, possibly retarded, probably meth-addicted upstairs neighbor screaming obscenities at her twenty cats or actual goddamn pet opossum. And no other upstairs neighbors who apparently spend their free time pushing their furniture around like it's a Nintendo puzzle game, just for recreation or whatever. And no older next-door neighbor waking me up at night with the most horrifying death-rattle of a cough in the dead of night, walking past my window to her stupid van. And no more half the parking lot being taken up by two dead cars and a freaking motorboat. Jesus, I could go on for days like this.

On a related note, while looking up info on the place, I came across my landlord's Myspace profile, (that I'm not linking to or hinting at in the slightest, because this dude in question can literally render me homeless with but a phone call) and the dude seems like a walking mid-life crisis, and it kind of horrifies me. Like take one of those bro-dog fratboy type dudes who all inevitably end up watching an episode of The Ultimate Fighter and then deciding to dedicate their lives to Ultimate Fighting, despite the fact that they only know of Ken Shamrock through his WWF stint and have never even heard of Royce Gracie, but then make him over forty and apparently decadently wealthy. Scary stuff.

On another related note, here is an open letter to what I'm pretty sure is our next-door neighbor: There are bumper stickers and window decals. And that's where it ends. When the stickers expand past the bumper, cover the trunk, and threaten to begin covering the license plate and brake lights, it's time to consider getting into some sort of treatment program. It's like Dale Earnhardt Jr. moved next door, right after signing a sponsorship deal with left-wing politics.

On a down note, the two new fishies from the last post checked out within a couple weeks of entering the tank. I'm gonna try again with a couple more otos eventually, this time armed with the knowledge of the drip-acclimation method. R.I.P. Otocinclus #1 and Otocinclus #2.

Finally, on another down note, apparently, during the period when I wasn't paying attention to the internet, Mitsuharu Misawa died. If you don't know who that is, don't worry, because that probably just means that you're a normal human being with a future. Anyway, he was pretty much King Shit of Fuck Mountain when it came to the Japanese pro wrestling scene back in the days when it still made money or mattered to anyone at all, and a lot of the pro wrestling basement nerds (and I can't knock those guys too hard, because I was one of them for a while) will tell you that he was the best there's ever been. Apparently, he got dropped on his head one too many times, and after the last one, he never got up and just died right there in the middle of the ring. And you just know all the dorks are putting the "that's how he would have wanted it" spin on the thing, but fuck that, the dude basically got killed (and depending on who you ask, spent the last few years of his life in a concussion-induced, half-retarded fog) because of taking a fake sport way, way, wayyyyy too seriously. And I hate to be that dickhead, but back when Shinya Hashimoto died a few years ago, I told you so. Not to mention the whole "Chris Benoit had the brain of an 85 year-old Alzheimer's patient when he killed his family" thing. Looking back, I'm getting more and more ashamed of being such a huge fan of that "drop people on their head and hit each other for real when possible" brand of wrestling back in the day. I should be ashamed of liking normal wrestling back in the day too, but eh, I'll deal with one personality disorder at a time. Anyway, R.I.P. dude. He's elbow-smashing angels now.

2009 Omnibus Blog Stimulus Post

Okay, haven't posted since the last week of February, so I figure I better update on the happenings and goings-on. Busy month.

- Remember that post about how I cured fish disease by just letting the tank go and letting the fish get all unstressed and such? Yeah, so it ended up being kind of bullshit in the end. Without getting into the sad details, adding two new barbs to the tank stressed everybody out, everybody got sick, and this time, even with a hospital tank coming into play, everybody died.

So now, the ten gallon pit of disease has been abandoned, a new 14 gallon tank has started up, and hopefully, it doesn't turn into a pit of despair like the first tank did. R.I.P. Larry, Darrell #1, Edgar, and Bubba.

- Gonna mess with some website-based stuff, so this might look all weird for a while. Right now, it's running where I type stuff in at Blogger.com, and then it posts to my website. Thing is, you lose a whole lotta capabilities and bells and whistles that way, ("Older/Newer Posts" links) so I'm probably going to just go back to hosting this page at Blogspot. You'll have to deal with their stupid navigation bar at the top of the screen, but eh, you're not paying for this shit. And I'm not paying enough to be able to install my own blog software on this site, (and I wouldn't know how to anyway) so there you go.

- I put a bow on my cat. I don't know why. But whenever that thing is on there, she acts all chilled out, like some sort of reverse Mr. Hyde serum, so on it stays.

- Mastodon put out a new album, and it's the first time a CD has pretty much blown me away since the last time Mastodon released an album. Unfortunately, this is also the second straight time that a new Mastodon CD has made me all but forget about the existence of a pretty good new Sepultura CD.

- I'm still doing occasional Chicago Bears-related posts over at the Armchair Linebacker blog, and maybe when it's easier to do stuff like that, I'll put a link to it somewhere on here that's not just part of a blog post. The life of a Chicago Bears fan is a life of pain, but for real pain, check out Neil's posts there. He's a Lions fan. Yeah.

- On the 19th, me and my special lady-friend Sarah celebrated our one-year anniversary. Hopefully, she doesn't wise up any time soon, but if she hasn't gotten sick of my football card addiction, failure to consistently keep dishes washed, and general weirdness by now, I should be in the clear. Here's to many more years of lazy snuggling, trips to Souper Salad, and being able to tell people I'm not gay and having them actually believe me for a change.

In other news related to people in my family not being gay, my brother Jack and his wife Amanda just had a whole bunch of babies. Well, in the name of accuracy, she did most of the work of having them, and it was actually only two babies. But that's still twice as many as most people have, so it counts. Crazy shit. In my new-found role of Crazy Uncle, it falls to me the responsibility of teaching them how to do amazing things with boogers and fire. Hopefully, I am up to the challenge.