The first night of my last year as a man able to watch Jersey Shore and That’s So Raven (I’m going to miss you Chelsea) without crumbling beneath the weight crushing self-loathing and societal scorn was wrought with drama. I was in a semi-stupor of expressionless television watching and disinterested light reading (read: porn found under the stairs) – an habitual stasis my body undergoes as it reaches the exhausted conclusion of a 24-hour battle of alcohol elimination – to find someone stealing my car for the second time since moving into the neighbourhood. The sinister laugh of a young man with an open schedule and a history of Vicodin abuse, followed by the cough of a car with better things to do than start when asked broke me from my trance. I ran outside in my underwear like Edward Norton in American History X only to see the car was, in fact, not mine, as I had moved it when getting food earlier and completely forgotten. Was it my neighbour’s car that was lifted? Possibly. My spot on the couch was sure to grow cold and not wanting to chance such an atrocity, I went back inside without investigating.
I then had the year’s first nightmare, precipitated by my watching a My Ghost Story marathon before falling asleep. What does a grown man have nightmares about? Death? Demons? The loss of loved ones? Not me, baby. Fantasy football. In my nightmare, my fantasy team sucked (I believe Arian Foster got injured on the first play of the game and Matt Forte played like, well, Matt Forte) and Drew Brees scored four touchdowns to ruin my Sports Select ticket. After Brees’ ridiculous Guantanamo Bay comments, nothing can haunt my nights more effectively than Drew Brees’ success. Yes, I know, there is nothing more pathetic than a man wishing ill on another when the hate recipient does not know the hater exists. I don’t care. If Michael Vick should be torn to pieces in front of PETA office by Game of Throne direwolves for fighting dogs, Brees deserves to be waterboarded by a no-necked marine for his comments on Guantanamo detainees living the high life in prison for crimes they may not have committed. For those who don’t know what in the hell I’m talking about, here you go:
“I can say this after that experience — the worst thing we can do is shut that baby down, for a lot of reasons,” Brees said. “But I think there’s a big misconception as to how we are treating those prisoners; those detainees over there. They are being treated probably 10 times better than any prisoner in a U.S. prison.”
Brees made some other eye-opening statements:
“I mean, they’re allowed to call and write letters home, and receive letters and calls. They get five opportunities a day to pray, and they have arrows in the prison pointing towards where Mecca is. And the prison goes dead silent so these guys can have their religious time. They have rooms where they can watch movies and play Nintendo Wii. So I think that just goes ahead and says it right there.”
“And you just talk to all the guards that are Army and Navy personnel, they’ll tell you stories about how these prisoners, they’ll be walking the cell blocks as they’re keeping an eye on these guys and they’ll be throwing the feces and urine in the faces of the guards as they walk by and the guards are not allowed to do anything. They’re not allowed to physically retaliate or do anything hardly to try to restrain these guys at all. These guys get away with whatever they want.”
I’ve never given much thought to dream maturation but, beneath the tattered images and “non-sequituous” narratives of dreaming, a germ of wisdom or castigation from the superego must exist. I’ve gone from nightmares of talking flamingos, upright elephants and bungled dates with the junior high crushes ending in some form of premature ejaculation or a crisp slap – oftentimes both – to the anxieties of a football draft that is in no way real. Yet, the unease I experience upon waking are similar.
If Sándor Ferenczi was right in that dreaming is the communication of repressed elements of an inconvenient reality, then mine wants me to know I can’t draft a halfway decent football team. Unfortunately, I’d already arrived at this conclusion in 2005 when, submitting to a muddled racial solidarity and sympathy for the underdog, I drafted Daunte Culpepper with the first overall pick instead of selecting one of the steadier and, dare I say, more talented quarterbacks. Culpepper opened that season with no touchdowns, eight interceptions and two fumbles before I relegated him to the bench and spot starting, after which he got hurt and effectively torpedo the remainder of my fantasy season. If I ever see him, I’ll insist he pay me the $50 entry fee.
Now, seeing as how it’s my birthday and my sense of entitlement grows with age, I’m asking all four of my blog readers to share with your friends and family. Go to any random post you liked, hated or made watching my death fall off your bucket list. Do you see that little share button with the Facebook logo under the article? Push it. Push the shit out of it. Push it until it begs you to stop. This blog just passed its 1,000 view a couple of days ago. Let’s see if we can get this baby to 5,000 before the year’s out.