Monday, April 11, 2005

Illogical Tourniquet Placement

You know, even though there aren't any sharks or giant squid, swimming in a deep lake can still be kinda scary.

Latigo Flint didn't have a very good day today. I guess it all started early this morning as I slept. For the 57th straight night I had that dream in which I'm outdrawn and gut-shot by the teenage Irish girl with flame-red hair and a mocking smile.

And last night's was particularly vivid and cruel. As always, her pale, thin hands flashed impossibly fast and easily bested my world-class quickdraw. I pressed desperate fist to my ruined stomach and slumped to the ground. She laughed lightly, holstered her pistol with a dainty flourish and started making calls on her neon-green cell phone. I squirmed around in dirt made muddy by my own blood and esophageal juices while she sat on a nearby rock chatting with her friends. Every so often she'd casually give them an update on my condition; there'd be laughter and an unintelligible reply from the earpiece. The girl would giggle and roll her eyes - "I know, right? I mean like, eww, right?"

I awoke to a dull roar and a spinning ceiling that kept fading in and out. It took a few moments before I realized that I had somehow torn my sheet into a tourniquet strip and had wrapped it around my neck. (And here all this time I was under the impression some sort of R.E.M Paralysis prevented us from this kind of illogical tourniquet placement/attempted self-strangulation.)

I loosened my grip in the nick of time, stumbled to the kitchen and made myself a contemplative cup of instant coffee. "No doubt about it," I gloomily mumbled into the java steam, "Same dern dream fifty-seven straight nights has got to be prophetic."

The coffee looked a little lonely so I added a splash or twelve of whiskey and some antifreeze. I finished it, made myself another, hold the coffee, and reached a decision - today I would die in a jet ski accident. Not suicide mind you, just blindfolded, high-speed jet skiing with random turning until I crash into something. Reasoning being, if the dream is prophetic then I'm going to cheat it and go out my way. If it isn't prophetic... Well I haven't had a good night's sleep for fifty-seven nights now, which means I'll probably die soon in some fatigue related accident anyway.


When the jet ski ran out of gas I had to swim to shore.


At 5:02 AM, Blogger Mister Jinxy said...

You keep practicing that quickdraw, Latigo.

I just know you can beat that impudent wench.

At 7:12 AM, Blogger Ghost Dog said...

Take control of your dream, Flint-san. Here's some ammo: just as she draws her pistol, a masterless samurai flashes in from nowhere and disembowels the evil witch, only to reveal she is some sort of alien. You get on her neon-green cell phone and call Kid Relish and recount the incident, giggling and saying, "I know, right? I mean like, eww, right?"

Tables = turned.

At 8:13 AM, Blogger Dave Morris said...

Ghost Dog got it right. Take control. Involve a samurai.

Or, just let Kid Relish experience the feel of light complected Irish skin inder his fingernails by telling him the skank doesn't believe David Hassellhoff REALLY wears make up on a daily basis. KR will be furious and will give her a beat down.

At 10:19 AM, Blogger Blog ho said...

team up. i like it.

you can't cheat fate. don't you read the Greeks? Didn't you see Krull? Remember the cyclops who tried to cheat fate?

I'd hop on a plane to Ireland and start calling the girls out.

At 10:30 AM, Blogger OldHorsetailSnake said...

What you do is, right before you start dreaming, you wake yourself up. Go to the head, piss some blood, and go back to sleep. Repeat as needed.

At 11:52 AM, Blogger Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm said...

You need a mantra. Here's my suggestion:

"I'm a frecklefucker. I fuck freckles."

Sip your coffee.

"I'm a frecklefucker. I fuck freckles."

Sip again.

You'll gain an immediate psychological edge. Just wait until you leave Starbucks before you chant. Very soon this dream will no longer plaugue your slumber.

At 2:10 PM, Blogger Teaspoon said...

glad you are okay there LF, it would have been a shame to have the quickest quick draw in all the land taken out by his own bedsheets. Just imagine the scandal that would insue. KR would have to go on a butt kicking endeavor of mass proportions to defend your good name.

At 2:32 PM, Blogger darthmoridin said...

I think you should find a red-headed Irish girl and shoot her in the leg. You'll feel (and sleep) better.

At 6:03 PM, Blogger Lightning Bug's Butt said...

Sorry I didn't post earlier. Blogger was being a prick. I think Blogger and Microsoft have a bet on who can piss more people off.

Anyway, don't fret over this dream. I'm no clinical psychologist, but I known the source of this nightmare: Ashlee Simpson. Follow me on this.

Remember when her lip synch track went tits up and she was exposed for the fraud that she is? Well, in a fit of panic, she danced that cowbody, hoe-down jig -- a dance reminiscent of the Old West.

That event lodged itself into Latigo Flint's subconscious. Once he's asleep, Ashlee takes the form of a gun-toting hooch with a cell phone.

Don't you feel better?

At 6:37 PM, Blogger Latigo Flint said...

Thanks Jinx. I'll dern sure keep trying. It's just, well, the dream world just doesn't fight fair, you know?

Ghost Dog, masterless samurai are super-cool, for all the reasons people smarter than I have previously pointed out. I hope what you've describe happens one of these nights.

Dave, I think she would ruin the Kid. I've seen her 59 straight nights now - he's not in her class.

I know Ho, fate is sucky almost all the time. ("then shall a girl of ancient name become queen")

The funny thing Old Hoss, those are the exact instructions Control gave Alan Sheppard during his historic space flight. He also had to keep an eye on his pitch and yaw dial at the same time. Then I think Ed Harris and Dennis Quaid open mouth kissed. (Umm, I've been drinking by the way, and I'm not a hundred percent sure I know where I am right now.)

That is probably the best mantra I've ever heard Steve. And by the way, it's not just me, I think probably everyone needs a mantra. You could open a customized mantra boutique.

You're quite right there TSP. It would have been a very disappointing way to die, and most unbecoming for a S-E.G.

You don't even read my posts any more do you Dmor? You just skim the first paragraph, hit comment and suggest a leg wounding.

That's some mighty impressive deductive reasoning there LBB. I do feel a bit better. (And we should all be so blessed to have a band we can blame when we royally screw up.)


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