Last night I dreamt I wrassled a leopard roughly the size of an old Buick Century, which seemed much larger when I drove one at sixteen than the one in the picture.
I miss The Brick. Anyone? Bench seats, duct taped windows, godzilla cupholder, roll of toilet paper permanently fused on the dashboard? Remember how Brick only had an AM radio, and when we drove anywhere on Saturday nights we had to listen to some guy pretending to be Vincent Price reading The Tell-Tale Heart or The Monkey's Paw?
And the only available music came from the canny buttholes at OzWorld Radio, who colonized their bastard of a radio set list with about seventeen songs played on shuffle, including "Scatman" and "How Bizarre," both of which inspire my inner Hulk?
Which is probably why I dreamfought that Buick-sized leopard in the first place, because as it slunk around me, its spots were singing. Thousands of mouths going, "I'm the catman...BEEEEE bop bop bada bope..."
So I go Hulk on the leopard, and as we're fighting, all pissed and beastly, the song lengthened and slowed until it morphed into, "I can't give you anything but love, baby..."
I stopped fighting, shocked and wide-eyed at the giant leopard before me. And I couldn't believe I was fighting Baby the Leopard. The Leopard. The only good one out there. In my dream I blinked, and in life I woke up. Late for work.