There’s One Problem with the Characters in Your Dreams — They’re Racist

You, essentially.

Ah, Dreamworld: that distant frontier of wonder we each carry inside us. A land of unfettered flight, haunting beauty, and occasional incest. By turns, Dreamworld is both tragedy (you get a call telling you your whole family is dead, but when you arrive at the coroner’s, each member of your family is played by Eddie Murphy, but everyone, including you, plays it straight as hell) and comedy (you’re a hermaphrodite covered in third-degree burns, shivering alone in the corner of your childhood home, which lies in ruins after the bombs finally fell).

While psychologists disagree about the reasons for our dreams, there’s one thing they do agree on: as projections of our subconscious, dreams come from our brains.

As projections of the subconscious, dreams come from our brains.

Studies have also shown conclusively that you need not actually believe a stereotype to actively perpetuate that stereotype. As long as the stereotype has a foothold in your brain, you are likely to subconsciously reinforce it. Ergo, even if you think you’re Woke, you’re racist. Imagine how racist you are when you’re not Woke. Like, when you’re literally asleep, I mean. When. You’re. Literally. Asleep.

Imagine how racist you are when you’re not Woke.

You didn’t create the world, obviously, but you’re still part of it, and the world is racist, so you’re racist — this is an accepted fact. Now imagine how racist an entire world you created would be, since you’re racist (even, and especially, if you’re “not racist”). As god-emperor of your own sphere of reality, you’re essentially creating an apartheid hellscape every time your head hits the pillow. The title of your autobiography should be “Adolf Dreaming”, which I think sounds cool.

The Blu-Ray extras are totally worth it.

So the hapless Dreamworld population you invent and commandeer each night certainly shares your prejudice, as they are fractured versions of your sleeping, racist mind. Your aunt Patrice, who just last night whispered her darkest fantasies over that city bus PA while you rode uptown, watching in horror as your naked tiny white balls bounced on the blue plastic seat like the world’s most depressing helping of popcorn? Racist. Your racist aunt Patrice. Say it. I’m not going to tell you again. Call your aunt racist, right now. Call your aunt on the phone and call her a racist, right now, IRL.

Call your aunt on the phone and call her a racist, right now, IRL.