Since the Writer’s Guild went on strike
my dreamscapes sorely lack pizzazz.
The spy dressed all in white picked at his black hatband and adjusted his dark glasses, then pushed the button that launches the mini-missile towards the spy all dressed in black with a white hatband and dark glasses who calmly used his newspaper like a matador’s cape and pirouettes so that the rocket passes him by, blowing me up the alley and into dusty death. They remove their dark glasses and have matching eyes.
See? I told you.
The sage wizard’s eyes widened as the hobbit flipped the ring from the fireplace towards him. “Bilbo can fix his own damn problems.” After deftly catching the ring and sliding it on Gandalf started flying, thinking impure thoughts about Galadriel. From my perspective as the ring, I only feel rejected and used.
The Tyrannosaurus family, seated around the dinner table, complained that their short forearms couldn’t pass the bowl of me around the table. Sauteed to perfection, I can only wait while they work it out.
After waking up three times tonight,
it’s obvious that someone needs to pay the damn writers
so we can get some sleep.