Fright wig used car salesman imaginary movie

I walk along streets in Raleigh, going to a basketball game at NCSU, for some reason. Along the way, I run into several fans who were really hyped about this important game, for some reason. I finally reach press area.

There is an older woman there who reminds me of Nan Kehone, the president of Duke. The woman is wearing a fright wing and red clothes. The university has hired this woman to be a "professional fan".

In the press area, there is a politician and his speech writer, working on some kind of speech for him to give at a rally for the crowd. They're having trouble with it.

I ask if I might help. They hand me the script and I read part of it.

The speech is dreadful.

Suddenly ...

I am a used car salesman in a lot located in a shopping center.

The car dealership is doing some kind of promotion. I have to take customers into a theater and write down what seat they sit in in the theater -- it is supposed to give us an idea of how good their eyesight is to see if they would wreck our cars. The theater manager glares at me in the lobby as I and other car salesmen pass by, annoyed at us coming into her theater with our customers.

And then ...

I am at a family gathering.

There is someone there I went to high school with. He was a real bum in high school. He had gone to college and worked with computers now.

Suddenly ...

Jason and I are in a hotel room.

We went to see a of performance reunion by the cast of Charlie's Angels earlier in the evening. He is excited because one of the cast members, Cheryl Ladd, wore a dress that he saw he wear in person when the show was originally on the air. The dress was a quite hideous blue and red number.

Cheryl Ladd is there, in the hotel room, lying on the bed, talking with Jason about the dress.

And then ....

I am driving an older car from the 50's, going to my new apartment.

It had been raining and it's hot and humid. The car is full of wilting flowers.

I am looking for water to put on the flowers so they wouldn't wilt. I notice that plants were actually growing out of some parts of the car. The car is very old and about to fall apart.

Suddenly ...

I am in a movie theater watching a Star Trek movie that doesn't exist.

The movie is about a space station being invaded by an alien that would seep through parts of the station like acid. The aliens kill Nurse Chapel. (I am aware that, in her contract, she stated she didn't want to be in another Star Trek movie.) The crew didn't know what the alien was and rush around trying to figure out what to do.

And then ...

I am at my college graduation except, in this case, the graduation consists of only 30 or 40 people.

One of the people at the graduation is a student who was doing his final assignment, a speech. No one listens to his speech - people just get up and leave.

When the speech is over, the student talks to his professor, sitting at a nearby table. He is worried that he might not pass the assignment. The teacher gives him a large wooden block with the letter "B" on it and the hands a report card to him.

Suddenly ...

I am in a movie theater watching another movie that doesn't exist. It is a documentary about the Minneapolis music scene of the 1980's.

The movie includes interviews with Prince, Morris Day, and several of Prince's girlfriends.

And then I woke up.

Alien Blowfish Duck Lamp Sacrifice

I am a lamp.

I am a common, everyday lamp. One that would sit in a typical American home in the 1970's. I have a tapered ceramic base in some strange orange and burnt umber colors, a 60 watt bulb for my head, and a head covering consisting of a paper lampshade.

An obese man sits in a Lazy Boy recliner in his t-shirt. He takes a drink from a can of Budweiser and sits it down on the table beside me. He is watching a large 70's era console television set.

There is shag carpet on the floor, a sickly yellow and brown color. The room has plain wooden paneling. The lighting is subdued. It is night.

Sitting next to the television, near a window, is a toilet. The bowl of the toilet is filled with flowers, as if someone is using it as a decorative planter.

I hear someone in the hallway next to the living room.

It is an elderly woman. She is plainly dressed, her face wrinkled. She reminds me of a character actor one might see on a 70's British sitcom.

Her face begins to look distorted, almost like a blowfish when it's beginning to expand.

"Perhaps I should go upstairs," she says, apologetically, in a stoic, very British voice, "If the aliens are really here and taking over people, it might be best to just get them out of the way where they won't disturb anyone."

The man in the recliner stares at the television and seems to ignore what she is saying. His chair faces away from the hallway towards the television and he cannot see her.

Her face and head distort even more, growing larger and looking more like a blowfish.

Strange noises start coming from her body.

"Quick! Hurry!" I hear my friend Stuart say, "You have to be a sacrifice for the alien!"

I turn to see legs and arms sprouting from the toilet, like an anthropomorphic character from a tv commercial. It stands up.

"You have to be a sacrifice for the alien!" the toilet says in Stuart's voice, moving it's seat like a mouth.

"I don't think that's a good idea," I say, somewhat concerned.

Suddenly, I see a log in front of the television with an ax in it. The man rises from the chair and grabs the ax.

I feel funny.

I look down and see that I am now a duck, standing on the table.

The man grabs me by the throat; I flap my wings and feathers fly as he moves me towards the log.

"It's the only way," Stuart the Toilet says, "You must be a sacrifice for the alien!"

The woman's head grows larger and more distorted. Her body begins to shake.

"No!" I scream and squawk, "You be the sacrifice - not me!"

The man firmly places me on the log, his hand around my neck. He holds the ax high above his head.

"No!" I squawk, "There's got to be another way!"

"You must be the sacrifice!" Stuart the Toilet intones.

I see the blade of the ax coming closer towards my head. I struggle and squawk, but can't break free.

Everything goes black.

My head feels strange, as if part of the top center of my brain is empty, missing.

Then, something like a rush of electricity or bolt of lightning surges through the hole in my brain.

I open my eyes.

I am still a duck.

I am standing in a room all by myself. The floor is black tile. All of the walls of the room and the ceiling are covered with mirrors.

"Damn," I squawk, "what the hell happens now?"

Then I woke up.