I was dreaming last night that I was travelling across America in a flying saucer.
I was taking a break in a bar in the middle of nowhere when Heather Locklear wandered in and headed straight towards me. She looked tired and was obviously quite drunk. ‘Hey, you’re the Boy From Mars, aren’t you? Can you lend me twenty dollars and fifty cents? I’ve got to drive for miles to get to see my lover OJ Simpson before they send him to hell.’
‘Is it really important to you?’ I asked.
‘Well, he’s offered to instruct me in getting away with murder.’
‘It’s not funny, Mars-Boy,’ she hissed. ‘You might think OJ ridiculous but abstract evil does not choose the form in which it emerges in the particular.’ (I think she was secretly plagiarising something she had read about Hitler and the Nazis.)
‘Anyway, what’s the fifty cents for?’ I asked.
‘Oh, that’s to buy lipstick for my pig.’ With that, she fell over and was carried outside by a priest who put her in an ambulance and drove her away.
Chuckling to myself, I finished my breakfast of grits and coffee before getting in my spaceship to continue my journey.
Later, as I was going through Hollywood, I turned on the radio for company; Harry Shearer was singing: ‘President Bush is a moron; we’re all doomed.’ It was a good song.
I got up this morning about seven-thirty feeling very refreshed and was able to write down the exact details of my dream with the mental precision I always have on first waking.