Dreaming about Commies

Last night, I had a dream about an undetectable Soviet battleship that could "float underwater" (not sure how that's different than a submarine, but it looks like an ocean liner with gun ports sailing underwater). In my dream, the Soviets "decommissioned" them all by blowing them up in the middle of the ocean so that their super secret design would not fall into the hands of the Americans. I'm not sure why they were being decommissioned, since it was the mid-1980's and the cold war was still in full swing, but that thought didn't occur to me in the dream. Unbeknownst to the commie government, one of the ships had been stolen by a sadistic rogue Soviet navy captain and a crew of equally sadistic rogue Soviet commandos, who sailed it all the way to America and attempted to take over an American town and hold it for ransom. Since it was the 1980's, they had to call Arnold Schwarzenegger to come in and save the day. The really cool thing about the dream was that it looked like it was filmed in the style of a 1980's action flick. Dialogue, clothing styles, special effects, and even cinematography were all reminiscent of movies like "Commando," "Rambo," and, of course, "Die Hard." Very cool.

An Afternoon Nightmare

I was trying to take a nap. At first I dreamed that I was on a date with a lovely young lady on whom I'd had a secret crush in the past. The date started off badly as I, being unbelievably nervous, forgot to compliment her on how stunningly beautiful she looked. We had just arrived at the restaurant, when I saw comedian Sarah Silverman sitting on a bench outside the restaurant. I greeted her, of course, and she acknowledged my greeting, but didn't say anything funny or awesome that I could tell all my friends about at future parties ("Oh, man, I can totally see Sarah Silverman saying that! That's so awesome!"). My date didn't know who Sarah Silverman was, so I pointed out Sarah's picture on a promotional poster hanging on the wall. My date did not seem impressed. As we approached our table, my mind began racing to figure out how to tell her how lovely she looked and, dear God, don't let her think I'm a jerk for not saying anything at the beginning of the date and what exactly do you you call what she's wearing? That's called a blouse, right? I can't call it a shirt, or I'll look like an idiot--unless I call it a blouse and it's not a blouse, but some sort of special chick shirt with a fancy French name. Should I just call it a "top?" That sounds worse than shirt! I switched my attention to the task of providing an adequate description of her skirt when I realized that I was in way over my head and was going to make a fool of myself no matter what. I resolved to myself that I would make it my sacred duty to learn the taxonomic designations of every conceivable item of women's clothing, as well as the myriad fabrics from which they are made. That's the last thing I remember about the date, as my brain suddenly decided to make a rather jarring change of venue.

Suddenly, I was at the heart of a story featuring the Incredible Hulk. He was saving me from hideous, vivid blue-and-gold-skinned humanoid mutants of such horrifying power and malevolence that all I could think to do was flee. So flee I did, even though I knew that, no matter how far I might be able to escape, if The Hulk lost the battle (and lose he well might), these terrifying and hellish creatures were capable of sniffing me out, hunting me down and ripping my flesh to shreds—no matter where on this vast earth I may try to hide.

Thank you, brain. Thank you so much for ruining my nap with your psychotic powers of imagination.