I have a recurring nightmare in which I’m a letter of the alphabet – a “B” – but I struggle to walk and it’s leaving me morose and grouchy. It’s nauseating watching that “O” having all the fun, rolling around without a care in the world and boasting, ad nauseam, that of all the letters he does the best parody of a shocked mouth. Why this is a good thing I have no idea, but it certainly upsets my butcher – an “E” – who feels that his send-up of a comb is far more avant-garde. (As a bonus, it taunts bald men.)
Meanwhile, the “U” is filing a sexual harassment suit against the “Q.” The “Y” is depressed because he keeps being mistaken for a dowsing rod. And the “Z” is schizophrenic, believing that he’s really an “N” who’s too drunk to stand upright.
Worse, the “O” constantly mocks me, boasting that he can also get work as a zero, and that his newborn kids already have locum jobs covering for suicidal full stops. I try to disguise myself as an “8,” but as a “B” I lack the symmetry and opt for cosmetic surgery. The operation is botched, and I spend the rest of my days working as a pair of novelty boobs for Wingdings.
— Bob Dunderhead
You’ve probably spotted that everything in this dream suggests a deep hatred of cabbage. But on a deeper level – and this is a long shot – I do wonder whether you have issues with the letter “O.”
Have you ever been verbally berated by a gentleman disguised as a ring doughnut? If so, it may have caused you to unconsciously hate the letter “O.” I really think you must have been because your name sounds familiar – WAY too familiar. And for the record, “the incident” was your fault for trying to doodle the Mona Lisa onto my schnitzel sandwich, you immature jackass.
Do you think that naturists have nightmares in which, to their horror, they find themselves in a crowded room fully clothed?
Never. Are you some sort of cretin? Although, a common one is that they lose their reading glasses and end up butt naked at a symposium on naturalism.
I always dream that I’m three onions, which is a pain because it takes forever to undress and I’ve just landed a gig as a stripper. Then, mother threatens that if I misbehave she’ll put me in a lamb casserole. This upsets me greatly because my sister is the lamb, and I’m pretty sure she’ll look too wistful covered in sauce.
An argument ensues and mother cries. Not through upset, but because I know the reaction she has to onions and have purposely self-harmed. Father enters and suggests that I’m a mild onion and that mother’s symptoms are psychosomatic. On the other hand, my Priest thinks I’m mentally ill for even suggesting that I’m an onion; he figures I’m clearly a dapper beetroot.
Sister simply bleats incessantly, and the only way to silence her is with the threat of a large jug of mint sauce – which bears a remarkable resemblance to grandma, only it doesn’t fall over as easily when kicked. I then wake up in bed – for real this is – covered in soil, while being harassed by sixteen undersized greengrocers.
According to plant psychologists, this is a common dream among both adolescents and root vegetables. The main difference being that in the vegetable version the turnip is flummoxed as to how he afforded a mattress.
The three onions are symbolic and represent your mother; your mother represents your father, and the lamb pie represents a lamb pie. But the big question is this: who is the real you in this whole debacle? You probably think the jug of mint sauce, but then that would make your grandmother a pot roast, which is clearly poppycock. To be honest I’m clueless, but I usually have an epiphany when I’m sent a cheque for £5000.
Awakening covered in soil suggests you were either sleepwalking or your shower is broken. Should you ring the police about the greengrocers? Well, that depends on whether you own a phone – you probably don’t, and clearly the priority is fixing your shower. (And also sending me £5000. Definitely remember that bit.)