The nightmare of Dr. Samuel Johnson.
Yes, I do. Maybe not like yours. I have dreams in which I’m grappling with a terribly important plot problem that can’t be solved. I wake up in the middle of the night, frustrated but relieved that the problem does not actually exist. Then I go back to sleep and am slammed into the middle of the same problem. Wake up, rinse, repeat, repeat, etc, until dawn.
So. The other night I got enmeshed in a dream about chihuahuas. For once, it was kind of a fun dream. Everyone in public life was a chihuahua. There were Democrat chihuahuas, Republican chihuahuas, celebrity chihuahuas, NFL and NBA chihuahuas, MSM chihuahuas, and then there were the rest of us who never noticed that the ones in charge were tiny, domineering, snarly, ungrateful, half-witted, uh, chihuahuas.
In my dream I built this vast edifice of nonsensical critters in outlandish outfits running under our feet toward an idiotically impossible Utopia called, I don’t know, Taco Bell?
But like all dreams, it faded swiftly after I woke. Complete fizzle. Guess I’m a much better writer in my sleep. Only two fragments to leave you with. This, from Boswell’s Life of Johnson:
I told him I had been that morning at a meeting of the people called Quakers, where I had heard a woman preach. Johnson: “Sir, a woman’s preaching is like a dog’s walking on his hind legs. It is not done well; but you are surprised to find it done at all.”
And this vision of our latest political savior, the ultimate doyenne of the chihuahua universe.
Don’t cry for me, Clintonistas…