It’s Just A Dream, Winona.
Your first clue was milkshakes singing show tunes.
“Life could be a dream, do-roo-do-do-sh-boom” The Chords
“I’m not talking to you,” Winona says, rolling over on her side in bed. Obviously, I’m in trouble, but I’ll be in more trouble if I don’t ask why. Real men ask why. Lesser men live alone near other lesser men.
“What did I do this time?” I ask, and she says, “You know very well what you’ve done.” Actually, I don’t. I’m not even sure what I haven’t done. All I know is, if it’s this early in the morning, and she’s this accusatory, it must have something to do with her latest dream.
My wife has some pretty raunchy dreams. They say spicy food is what does it. One bowl of chili and you’re screwing the whole neighbourhood.
Winona’s not much for hot dishes. I’m not, either. I don’t have as many raunchy dreams as she does, but we dolive around a lot of old women. The last thing I need is dreaming about having sex with them. If they’re in my dreams at all, they’re delivering pies.
Real men backpedal. Lesser men ride scooters.
That’s not the problem now, unfortunately. Winona’s only interested in what I did in this dream, and it’s best that I take the offensive now so I can backpedal…
