Cheese, alcohol, a fever and decongestants make interesting bedfellows. On Christmas Eve I had a veritable trifle of a dream, unwrapping in layers and slipping seamlessly from one unlikely situation to another. So — in order — we have a game of Rollerball except instead of a rink, the arena is collosal — at least the size of that chariot race thing in Star Wars Schmar Wars. And instead of motorbikes there are triceratops (Arthur, exemplar left). And the sides are Allies vs Axis 39–45.
So far, so hum drum. Just another blog about a dream you’ll never have. But wait. During the game a big sphere is fired into a lake. Inside the sphere are people, but they cannot breathe until they turn on the reserve supply, which they do not know is laced with hallucinogens. When the people are released from the sphere, they reveal themselves to be.… the Teen Angels from Captain Caveman.
It went on, but you get the gist, and I’m cutting into valuable tea-drinking writing tea-drinking writing about tea-drinking time.
