I almost never remember my dreams. I typically wake up with some vague realization that I’ve been dreaming, but that’s not the same thing as knowing what happened.
But this morning, I woke up with a start. Here was a dream I remembered:
I was at a bar attending a charity fundraiser. The featured entertainment at this event, I swear to God, was Bob Newhart and me, facing off in a duel to the death with straight razors. The winner would take on Sarah Silverman.
There is so much wrong with this scenario that it’s hard to know where to start. Nonetheless, there I was, straight razor in hand, staring across the ring at a similarly armed Newhart.
Now, he may look soft and old, but when that bell rang, Newhart was a rabid animal. He came at me with wild lunges, swinging the razor tirelessly and aggressively. I ducked and slashed back, but we both kept missing. I caught a glimpse of Silverman, over in the corner, honing her razor with a leather strap. Newhart made one more wild slash at me…
And I woke up. The dog was stretched across my chest, whimpering. I rolled over and went back to sleep.