Courtesy of Dreamtime

“Have you any dreams you’d like to sell?” Stevie, Nicks, Fleetwood Mac

They say we dream four to six times per night — which is more than I need, believe me. I had one last night where a town was so corrupt, citizens got drunk while local criminals robbed them blind. Nobody minded until they realized they didn’t have enough money to get drunk again — or the dog fixed. A lot of dogs in my dreams walk around with worms.

You might call my dreams scatological. I remember obscene things, some more obscene than others. James Comey complained about worms in one of my dreams. He got up from the Senate Committee Hearings and started dragging his ass across the rug. So many asses have been dragged across that rug. It looks like deep burgundy with a gold pattern on television monitors, but it’s really white shag going back to the 60s.

President Trump was caught riding his cart across the green of his own golf course. Rules forbid that sort of thing, but Trump makes his own rules. He got off his cart and dragged his ass around the hole, singing, “It’s only right that you should play the way you feel it…” This doesn’t show up on any news coverage. You have to go to my dreams to see that wormy bastard turning the eighth hole into what pilots might mistake for a whirligig.

Bill Cosby got a mistrial in his sexual assault case after the jury came back deadlocked. They were too confused to know whether Cosby is a gibbon or a sloth. He plans to hold town hall meetings to educate young people about “problems their misbehavior could create.” His spokesman, Andrew Wyatt, wouldn’t elaborate, only that Cosby might turn up with Pudding Pops.

Melania Trump complained about comedienne, Kathy Griffin, holding her husband’s severed head, saying, “…a photo opportunity like this is simply wrong and makes you wonder about the mental health of the person who did it.” This followed Michelle Obama, who took offense to the Ty Company producing Beanie Babies of her daughters, and Hillary Clinton’s criticism of an SNL sketch that poked fun at daughter Chelsea’s preteen braces.

In my dreams, all three women get their revenge by running naked through the sprinklers on the White House lawn, singing, “Thunder only happens when it’s raining, players only love you when they’re playing.” This never happened in real life, of course, since the sprinkler system automatically shuts off when anybody’s having fun.

First Ladies, in fact, are required to limit any sprinkler activities to the East Wing where nobody has any fun. Speeches are often presented as soggy piles, keeping Trump’s speaking engagements short, since he can’t be bothered pulling the pages apart. President Bill Clinton, in his day, took the time to pull the pages apart. Soggy pages were common in the Oval Office.

The ghost of Hunter S. Thompson appeared in one of my dreams, laughing hysterically. “We need Trump’s head on every lamp post in America,” he screamed, pulling out a can of Miller Lite. “Send one to the Kremlin in case that rat-faced Putin is thinking of sending one to us.”

No doubt Putin has heads of all kinds, some wax, some the real thing. I thought I’d mention that to Thompson, but he was on the phone to Kathy Griffin, telling her she should have rode Trump’s head like a dray horse. “Up yours, Hunter,” she screamed back, “I just lost two more endorsements.” Somehow he pulled her head through the telephone receiver and blasted her with nitrous oxide.

They went off together through the phone lines of America, no doubt heading for Hollywood where Thompson plans to give Floyd Mayweather pointers on fighting Conor McGregor. “Watch the little bogtrotter’s feet,” he’ll say, although he’s admitted secretly that a UFC fighter and a boxer going toe-to-toe is like bees cross-pollinating roses with fire hydrants.

Muhammad Ali tried something simiar in Japan with a martial artist. It got pretty silly and I’m sure that’s something Thompson wants avoided at all costs. He’s a long-time pugilist and only respects blood-letting when it’s done in the interest of the sport — not the $100,000,000 each fighter will get if they live long enough after creaming each other’s croquettes.

“I’ll sit on Mayweather’s shoulders and ride him like a dray horse,” Thompson screamed on the phone later in my dream. He and Griffin were standing on Venice Beach, trying to get some color in her cheeks. “She’s paler than me,” Thompson said, “and I’m dead! — or that’s what Rolling Stone said, but who believes those bastards anymore!”

I guess I don’t have any dreams worth selling. None of them are crazier or more libelous than what’s going on in the news. Mayweather and McGregor will fight, Trump will no doubt cut up the greens with his golf cart, and who knows if Comey will ever appear before a Senate hearing again. He can’t justify dragging his ass around the carpet with no tapes. All he can do is sniffle until Robert Mueller joins him in the unemployment line.

I hope they don’t appear in my dreams again. It’s just too creepy. Especially four to six times a night. I’ll have to take pills or nitrous oxide — whatever Thompson is carrying around when he shows up next.

“I don’t recommend drugs, but they’ve always worked for me,” he’ll say, to the sound of a harp he’s had electrified. You can’t hear yourself think, but that’s the way he likes it, and judging by the events surrounding us these days, we need harps, electrified or otherwise. We need something loud and overwhelming.

The rest is just too dumb to dream about.

Robert Cormack is a freelance copywriter, novelist and blogger. His first novel “You Can Lead a Horse to Water (But You Can’t Make It Scuba Dive)” is available online and at most major bookstores. Check out Yucca Publishing or Skyhorse Press for more details.

I did a poor imitation of Don Draper for 40 years before writing my first novel. I'm currently in the final stages of a children's book. Lucky me.