Monday, February 25, 2008

Dear The Nabob.

I am not usually given to explosive bouts of wild-eyed whimsy over the secret universe that underlies the one that we see with the naked eye, but I have a healthy respect for both the paranormal and the parapsychological. (And the parasol! For all your kicky restoration comedy needs!) So I was moved and impacted by your post today regarding your subconscious informing you of your tax return.

The G. has my number on her cell phone. Learn it. Memorize it. And if your dreams reveal anything, ever, about my fate, call me immediately. Call at 4:30am. I don't care if it's just stuff like from that Christopher Walken "Dead Zone" sketch on Saturday Night Live ("You're gonna be eating...some ice cream. You're gonna get...a ice cream headache. It's gonna hurt...REAL BAD.") - make the call. I believe.

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