The sleep of reason produces Munsters

I know I promised a discussion of marketing and the death of quality, but instead I give you:

My family and a few friends and I were part of some detective team trying to hunt down some demon-worshippers. The demon-worshippers were basically annoying teen satanists, but unfortunately, like Saddam Hussein, they were working on weapons of mass destruction and were apparently plotting some type of Aum cult-type apocalyptic attack.

Sure enough, we caught up with them as they were in the last stages of figuring out the incantations and bizarreness that would fuse technology and magic and produce a nuclear disaster. Just as we were about to arrest them, one of them yelled “I’ve got it! The last element has to be the opposite of fresh air!” This turned out to be Guinness! And they all opened bottles of Guinness which immediately sprayed deadly radioactive goop all over everyone.

Thus we were all doomed, and apparently this also somehow produced a giant radioactive cloud of fuck you that would soon kill lots of people.

However, two days later there was nothing in the paper about it. We decided that we were just supposed to die on our own and keep the other stuff a secret from everyone, which was disappointing but we all agreed that it was just sort of typical of this kind of government work. I rode my bike home.

3 thoughts on “The sleep of reason produces Munsters

  1. a giant radioactive cloud of fuck you
    this phrase is sticking with me, and it’s beautiful, and i’m going to try to use it as often as i can.

  2. Dreams
    The other night I dreamt I was interrogating Phylis Diller, and she happened to die, and I panicked, but it turned out that someone was already orchestrating a massive coverup of it (and had poisoned her, causing her death?), so I just went with the flow.
    — TorgoX

  3. I too had an unusual dream last night. I think it was quite long but I remember only the tail end of it, which was that I was wandering through a government building and decided to buy a deep-burgundy shirt and then stop off at the hair salon. The hairdresser was very attractive, and she encased my hair in thick blobs of a white waxy substance, like cholesterol dreadlocks. The next day I realized I could remove the waxy stuff, and my hair underneath had turned to strawberry blonde.
    Then there was something about a giant grandstand where prostitutes waited for clients, on the corner of Peel and Pine street in Montreal. I think my hairdresser moonlighted there or something.

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