Dreams will be the death of me.

[Ed.: NS for anywhere that does not dispense Thorazine and straight jackets.]

So I am crawling into a bed somewhere.  Someone is already there.  It’s Ruth from back in college.  Big tits, big mouth. Hasn’t aged a day.  Why is SHE here? I don’t really care, because: topless.  Boobs in  dreams are the best. But sweet alabaster-skinned Jesus, this is about to get, uh, strange.

No, BAD strange.

I have deniability on any significant other front that may apply, because this is the only place to sleep. Like my time in college, actual non-metaphorical sleep, in the same bed with a chick is the sole foreseeable outcome. Yeah, that’s the ticket.

Wake up woman, let’s get funky.

Karma:  Cue irony in 3… 2… 1.

Someone off camera says “she’s dead, Jim.”  Wait, what?  She doesn’t smell dead.  And I swear she was just talking to me, albeit nonsensically. [Ed.: So no reason to be suspicious, obvs.]

Oh well, big tits (and the opportunity to one up another friend) don’t trump dead in bed. [Ed.: Dead in bed?Insert ex-wife joke here?] So I wander off in search of a bleach shower beer and trolling for someone who is alive.

Later…

Fuck! [Ed.: Hopefully you mean “SHIT!” or something – anything – else!] That really was the only place to sleep and…

It’s late, I’m tired, and there’s so much left to do (E.S. Blofeld)

Plus beers in dreams make you tired, just like awake beers.

Later…

???

Later…

So yeah, then I wake up.  With no pants. [Ed.: SSDD, then?] She’s still there. Still allegedly dead. There are people around somewhere close by.  This is a politician’s disaster scenario!

The only way I can lose this election is if I’m caught in bed with either a dead girl or a live boy – Edwin Edwards

As the old fraternity aphorism goes, “suck one cock fuck one dog corpse and you’re labeled for life.”  This is bad! (And not just because the Hobby Lobby case means my insurance won’t pay for formaldehyde poisoning.)

Karma:  You do realize that if she were legitimately dead in that bed, everything would have been sewn up tight, right?
Me: Is that another ex-wife joke?

Step 1: find pants.  Found.

Step 2: be the first one to know whether there is DNA evidence to destroy.

Inner monologue:  goddamnit Mr. Happy! What did you do?!?!?!

Yes, lifting the a sheet on a probably naked, allegedly dead, potentially desecrated body is all kinds of creepy. Especially with no memory of whether that sheet lifting will prove to be the least creepy part of the last few hours. But there’s nothing to find. She’s still wearing those boxers. Thank Joshua H. Christ.  There is still the “I thought she was just passed out so I was a gentleman” excuse to float if anyone stumbles upon this.

What did we learn?  Always check for a pulse.  First (Obvs).  Also, sleep on the floor, you fool.

And, declare victory at “topless.”   Stop the dreams there, and wake the fuck up.