I must be sleepwalking. I must have taken two or three 10-milligram tablets of Ambien last night instead of one. Keep me away from the refrigerator! Hide the car keys! Get me away from the computer - oops, too late.
Forgive me in advance - but I'm hallucinating.
This is one of those crazy emails you send when you're on Ambien - but I just can't resist telling you about this ridiculous dream I'm having while still, obviously, under the influence.
I'm a little embarrassed - it comes off like a Lifetime movie written by the corniest, over-the-top screenwriter on the planet.
In my dream, America, the allegedly dazed and confused, passport-challenged nation of racist, fat people who voted George W. Bush into office twice, just elected an African-American man as President. The world - who hated us yesterday - loves us today and is celebrating almost as much as the U.S. We managed to get our integrity back, pay a huge domestic karmic debt and redeem ourselves on the world stage - overnight.
Come to think of it, maybe I took four or five Ambien by mistake. Call 911. On second thought, don't.
Actually, in my dream, Barack Hussein Obama (check out that middle and last name or else phone 1-800-IRONY) is more than just a black or bi-racial man. In my dream Obama is a perfect global Rainbow president - straight out of Central Casting.
Son of an African-born father and a white mother born in Kansas. (Kansas? Cliche alert.) Raised in Hawaii and Indonesia and went to college in Los Angeles and New York before landing at Harvard Law School. So far, the only things missing are Toto, Angelina Jolie in a head scarf and her orphans. (Although Brad Pitt was in Grant Park.) Oh, and Obama's beloved grandmother who raised him died the day before he was elected in case there wasn't enough drama.
In my dream, I'm watching TV where anchors cut first to joyous Kenyans celebrating in the village where Obama's father was born (into a Muslim family, I might add) - before showing the thrilled Indonesian kids at Obama's elementary school in Jakarta. Then they go to the south side of Chicago where his wife was born and raised.
What, no half-brother on a reservation near Wounded Knee or a stepsister in a Stone Age tribe in Venezuela?
No - and I didn't see the ghosts of Rosa Parks and Elvis Presley next to a weeping Jesse Jackson, either. Well, at least I know I probably didn't take more than five Ambien.
Just a dream? All things are possible. Roll over and tell Chuck Berry the news.
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