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last night i listened to a show discussing dream analysis on npr. as i took in the eruditic ponderings of the panel i thought of a dream marty had earlier in the week.

in the dream she woke up in the morning and smelled poop. she called into the kids room asking if anyone needed a diaper change. none did. she then marveled at the proximity and strength of the aroma. she threw the sheets back and between she and i was a stacked pile of feces. i say stacked in the literal sense because it was not a smoldering heap or a fallen pile but instead a series of perfectly-formed and equally-sized fecal logs the length and diameter of an average-sized forearm. they were interlocked in a precise and intricate pattern much like, and visually similar to, lincoln logs.

editor's interruption: for thoroughness sake i should add that while the logs in the bed looked similar to lincoln logs, they did not have the super-convenient notches cut out of the ends which mark true lincoln logs as lincoln logs not to mention ensuring more stable structures. i say this only because i asked the question of marty and felt you might ask it of me as well.

upon finding this tainted relic marty frantically clapped me on the shoulder telling me to wake up and that she thinks i took a dump in the bed.

editor's interruption: accusing me of crapping the bed has, in the past, proven to be a pretty effective way of getting me to wake up on the first try.

coming out of my slumber i roll towards marty and see the excrement-based stonehenge. i leap from the bed in a sudden fervor surpassing her own. when she tells me i did it i look down but still have my boxers on so feel cleared of the crime.

editor's interruption: in her retelling, she admitted to being perplexed how i could have done that while wearing underwear. never mind the not modest collection of mini-fire extinguisher size loggerheads my wife of seven years thinks came out of my non-forearm-sized rectum.

sadly upon further inspection, meaning me lowering my boxers, there were unfortunate signs that i may have been the culprit. i won't bore you with my predictable antics in the bathroom calling for help and recoiling at my own state because i'm sure i've touched on all of those sensitivities before. the point of this is not my reaction in the dream but how compelled i was to call npr's dream-pundits to get their assessment of my wife's latest sleeping yarn. in the end i believe i didn't make the call for fear of hearing what they might have to say.

lastly, if i could ever convince marty to sell me the rights to her dream life i would title the affair, the likes of which you've never seen before cuz there be some super-twisted stuff rattling around that innocuous looking head of hers.




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