Because this dream warrants sharing:
It all began with a call on my cell phone: Rob Zombie is rolling out and I have to be where he's going. Im driving down the street, and somehow I end up behind Rob in his pimped out bucket roadster from the Dragula video. The roadster was a little modified: it was on a dragster frame, with the cab at the front instead of the back. And there was a giant Rob Zombie face on the back of the cab. With glowing eyes.
Rob Zombies eyes glow as well as he turns around to look at me. He was, at this point, driving forward while turned around in his seat. Rob proceeded to throw his devil-mobile into reverse and run into me. What the fuck, Rob?
He pushes me back a few blocks, past cop standing in the middle of the road next to his car, attempting to handle some sort of domestic dispute. I discover my left tires are slashed, and I attempt to explain to Robs assistant - who is a suit-wearing whiny corporate fuck why this is not my fault and that I cant afford to pay for new tires and the damage to my car. He really doesnt give a shit, and proceeds to verbally pooh-pooh all over my argument.
I bust out my cell phone because I have Robs number in my phone book; Im going to set this shit straight. At about this time, one of the individuals involved in the domestic dispute walks up to me and tells me that he wants my cell phone. I tell him to fuck off, and we fight for it. During the scuffle, he bites my arm. I beat the shit out of him, and walk back to the house I was at.
For some reason, Im living with five late-teen girls. I dont know why. The house is a cross between my Grandmothers house in WA, and my apartment here. Im trying to call the cops, or Rob, or anyone who cares at this point. Of course, the land line doesnt work in the house, so I cant call anyone. At some point in the fight with the stranger over my cell phone, it busted open and sustained water damage. No dice there, either.
I grab a can of Pepsi and proceed to dial my call on the printed phone number pad on the side of the can. Problem: every time I push a button, it crinkles the can. It gets so bad that I cannot dial numbers. You fucking idiot! Dont open the can, that way the pressure will keep it from crushing. Oh, wait, silly ass: I cant hear anyone if I dont pop the tab. Christ! I pop the can open, and there goes all the pressure.
Suddenly Im holding a zip-lock bag full of orange juice, which, to the best of my recollection, also had a numeric dialing pad on it. I attempt to make a phone call with the bag of orange juice to no avail.
The house transforms into a co-workers (though nicer, and bigger), and her thirteen kids (number only slightly exaggerated) enter the kitchen (apparently thats where I was) one of these kids is my friend from high school. I ask him whats been going on, and he says not a whole lot. Its been likethree years, man.
Totally.
End of dream.
----
Is it possible to be in love with an inanimate object?
It all began with a call on my cell phone: Rob Zombie is rolling out and I have to be where he's going. Im driving down the street, and somehow I end up behind Rob in his pimped out bucket roadster from the Dragula video. The roadster was a little modified: it was on a dragster frame, with the cab at the front instead of the back. And there was a giant Rob Zombie face on the back of the cab. With glowing eyes.
Rob Zombies eyes glow as well as he turns around to look at me. He was, at this point, driving forward while turned around in his seat. Rob proceeded to throw his devil-mobile into reverse and run into me. What the fuck, Rob?
He pushes me back a few blocks, past cop standing in the middle of the road next to his car, attempting to handle some sort of domestic dispute. I discover my left tires are slashed, and I attempt to explain to Robs assistant - who is a suit-wearing whiny corporate fuck why this is not my fault and that I cant afford to pay for new tires and the damage to my car. He really doesnt give a shit, and proceeds to verbally pooh-pooh all over my argument.
I bust out my cell phone because I have Robs number in my phone book; Im going to set this shit straight. At about this time, one of the individuals involved in the domestic dispute walks up to me and tells me that he wants my cell phone. I tell him to fuck off, and we fight for it. During the scuffle, he bites my arm. I beat the shit out of him, and walk back to the house I was at.
For some reason, Im living with five late-teen girls. I dont know why. The house is a cross between my Grandmothers house in WA, and my apartment here. Im trying to call the cops, or Rob, or anyone who cares at this point. Of course, the land line doesnt work in the house, so I cant call anyone. At some point in the fight with the stranger over my cell phone, it busted open and sustained water damage. No dice there, either.
I grab a can of Pepsi and proceed to dial my call on the printed phone number pad on the side of the can. Problem: every time I push a button, it crinkles the can. It gets so bad that I cannot dial numbers. You fucking idiot! Dont open the can, that way the pressure will keep it from crushing. Oh, wait, silly ass: I cant hear anyone if I dont pop the tab. Christ! I pop the can open, and there goes all the pressure.
Suddenly Im holding a zip-lock bag full of orange juice, which, to the best of my recollection, also had a numeric dialing pad on it. I attempt to make a phone call with the bag of orange juice to no avail.
The house transforms into a co-workers (though nicer, and bigger), and her thirteen kids (number only slightly exaggerated) enter the kitchen (apparently thats where I was) one of these kids is my friend from high school. I ask him whats been going on, and he says not a whole lot. Its been likethree years, man.
Totally.
End of dream.
----
Is it possible to be in love with an inanimate object?
VIEW 6 of 6 COMMENTS
potatoe products?
nigga pleeeze, bacon is what more brutal, it's FLESH! was a potatoe ever mobile? NO. potatoes hide in the dark underground like little bitches. Bacon could scream and feeeeeel. plus it's WAY saltier.
poitatoes, pftt..
you neve rhear about gay men logding bacon up their asses.
BACON RULES!