I Have a Dream, Bitches

Here’s my dream:

I’m sitting on a beach. I don’t care which beach. All I know is it’s warm, it’s breezy, and there are none of those disgusting sea onions lying around. I hate those things.
 

I'm sure they're not actually called sea onions.
But by any name they make me want to throw up
if I step on them.

But there are lots of hermit crabs scuttling across the sand. Because I like hermit crabs.

I’m in a lounge chair. I’m in the world’s most comfortable lounge chair. I’m looking smoking hot in a bikini

SHUT UP THIS IS MY DREAM OK?

and since this is my dream, maybe the hermit crabs could be singing. Maybe they could be singing old Dr. Hook songs, because I’m really into old Dr. Hook songs right now.

 

Hook, claw, whatever.

Anyway, the sun is shining, the waves are lapping, and I’m slowly baking to a golden brown in my comfy lounge chair. Am I alone? Why no, I am not.

To my left, Johnny Depp is slicing fresh pineapples with a machete and feeding me the pieces. He’s wearing an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt and a Speedo. Also, I’m not having the allergic reaction I often have to fresh pineapple where my lips itch and my throat closes up. My dream.

To my right, Hugh Jackman is reading e.e. cummings poems to me. He’s wearing a tuxedo. I just think he looks sexier that way. Oh, and his Wolverine claw is on one hand, so he can gently scratch me when I itch.

I’m drinking fresh pineapple juice…you know, because the pineapples are right there. No alcohol. Are you kidding? I’m on a beach being fawned over by Johnny Depp and Hugh Jackman – could booze make me feel any better? No. No, it could not.

I couldn't find a picture of Johnny Depp in a Speedo,
so you'll have to look at him shirtless. Sorry.

So the day is fine and the crabs are singing “Sylvia’s Mother,” except when I snap my fingers they fall silent. Because the ability to get complete silence on command is every mother’s dream. Then all I can hear are the waves caressing the shore, and the breeze ruffling the palm trees that line the beach, and sound of pelicans making whatever the hell sound pelicans make. There are no seagulls on my dream-beach. Noisy winged vermin, they are.

Maybe I sleep. Without worrying that I should keep one eye open in case someone decides to rifle through my stuff and steal my wallet. No one is going to do that. Because I’ve got Wolverine right here. Also because I didn’t bring a wallet. I have no need of ID here. I’m nameless, blameless, and shameless. Ask Johnny Depp.

Oh, and I can reach down and pick up passing kittens whenever I feel like it. My beach has kittens. Who never, ever use the sand as their litter box.

Pelicans and kittens. Hell, yeah.

 

Eventually I pick up my left-handed Gibson, and of course in my dream I know more than four chords and don’t have to look at the frets for the changes. I improvise a melody; something a little folky, a little jazzy, a little bluesy – in A, why not. Johnny Depp starts to sing, weaving the words of e.e. cummings into the tune. The hermit crabs add harmony. Hugh Jackman strips to his shorts and runs into the ocean, then swims out with smooth, powerful strokes. I don’t know what happens to him after that.

But now I’m alone with Johnny Depp on the beach.

My subconscious is happy to report that he’s a masterful lover. Very tender, and never once digs a knee or elbow into my side. And he smells like toasted coconut.

And marshmallow? Sure, why not?

Afterwards, we’re looking at a spectacular sunset. You know, when we’re not gazing into each other’s eyes. Me and Johnny Depp, who are snuggled together on a lounge chair and it’s not at all cramped and awkward because it’s the most comfortable lounge chair in the world and also magically gets bigger to accommodate me and Johnny Depp.

Just when I think I couldn’t get any happier or more content, he reaches behind his lean, bronzed torso and produces a handful of Snickers Peanut Butter Squared, which he lets fall on my lap. Then with a puff of smoke he transforms into Bestest Friend, and we spend the rest of the evening eating Snickers and pre-sliced pineapple surrounded by kittens and no men.

I never wake up. The end. 

That’s my dream, bitches.