Intellectual Stool Softener: Nightmares

Before we begin, I'd like to propose a new sexual term in honor of our horndog Governor, Elliot Spitzer. It will be related to the infamous “Cleveland Steamer.” We will call it the “Albany Steamroller” and it is defined as such:

The act of dropping stink nuggets on your partner's chest during the act itself, and then proceeding to spread said fecal matter over the epidermis of your partner by utlizing your wood-stick in a rolling pin fashion.(If enacted properly, this should result in “Fudgsicle Cock” & “Turd Schmear”)

Ok, with that out of the way, let's move on to the real column...

Maybe you can help me. See, I’ve been having some alarmingly odd dreams lately, and I’m really unsure why. Each and every one of these increasingly odd dreams, centers around horrible incidents and or imminent danger surrounding me and or my loved ones.

What's worse is that when I wake up I remember EVERY vivid detail of my dream. We are now at the point where my poor wife is getting woken up on a regular basis, because I’m breathing heavily and need “comforting.” Seriously.

She basically wants me to see a shrink now. I’m going to share one of my recent dreams below, and I’ll let you decide just what level of help I should be seeking at this point.

So here is my dream from Saturday Night:

I’m walking around a town in Westchester with two of my best childhood friends. For some unexplained reason, I am carrying a gun, though the gun is disguised as a cable modem that I recently had installed by Time Warner. So, to the naked eye, I’m just some pathetic-looking white guy walking around with a cable modem.

My two friends, who throughout childhood - and probably now - always demonstrated better judgment and measurably more self-control than I did, dare me and chide me until I agree to shoot somebody with the cable modem.

So, being the moron I am, I shoot some poor bastard three times in the head. He dies instantly and for some reason I just stand there admiring my work.

The police show up. Now, the police chief is exact same police chief from the 1989 comedy See No Evil, Hear No Evil - a movie I probably haven’t seen since the first Bush administration. He questions me, he’s about to let me go, and then when he turns around, I throw the modem-gun in the trash.

The police chief sees this out of the corner of his eye, tells me he saw me throw the modem into the trash, he knows the “Modem-Gun trick,” and that he’s now sure I'm the murderer.

So...I’m arrested and taken to a holding cell to await transport to Rikers Island, a prison I’m very familiar with because when my wife goes out on Friday night and I elect to stay home, it’s usually because I want to watch MSNBC Investigates.

I’m left in a holding cell for 24 hours with five or six other men who all either resemble Charles Oakley or Ben Wallace. Needless to say, I’m scared shitless and they are all making fun of me as I cower in the corner. Looking at the floor, not moving. Not speaking. Not going to the bathroom. Nothing.

Finally, the police chief comes to tell me that I’ve made bail, and that I should change out of the orange jumpsuit and back into my street clothes.

So, I begin to change. Off goes the orange jumpsuit and on go my jeans. I pause to take a leak before leaving the cell, and begin to release 24 hours of stored up urine into the metal trough that the holding cell tries to pass off as a urinal(not quite “American Standard”).

It’s an epic piss, to the point where I lost control mid-stream and one of the Ben Wallace look-alikes screams over, “Yo, Little G...you pissin all over your pants, man.”

I ignored him and briefly continued to spray my golden body liquor all over the place, and quickly exited the cell, piss-soaked pants and all.

I then go home to my family, and tell them I’m nauseous because, you know, my life is over and I’m going to jail for eternity. The dream ends with my wife consoling me, and promising me that we will find a way to get me acquitted.

So, I wake up really hot and bothered. My heart is beating and I’m basically in a panic. And I’m about to wake up my wife so she can calm me down, as has been standard practice over the past several weeks.

That’s when I noticed it. This dream came with a parting gift...

Normally, when I wake up, I have to piss like a race horse. But for some reason, that wasn’t the case. And my legs were damp.

“That’s strange,” I thought. Another strange thing? My dog was cowering in the corner of the bed. Obviously, something had spooked her. So I pulled up the sheets and confirmed it.

I, a 32-year-old, supposedly healthy male, pissed the bed.

I got the sheets, the mattress pad, and the mattress. And as I eluded to above, this was an epic piss. It looked like a lemonade truck had overturned on my bed.

Though not cursed by a golden ending, my dreams the last two nights have been just as bizarre as well. I am considering never going to sleep again.

Matt Gluck is, well, Matt Gluck. He recently wrote about what it's like to watch a Knicks game and a non-column column. His column runs every other Wednesday.