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(Just had to share a nightmare I had the other night after watching three hours of Sunday news shows on TV).
I found myself following what I thought was a white rabbit, but really was a wrapper with a half-eaten slice of an inside-out pizza that miraculously blew into a trash container near the recreation center in my neighborhood. When I got to the bottom of the trash container, I found myself hurtling through a dark tunnel that seemed to go on forever like a presidential campaign that never ends.
I woke to find myself in the middle of a press conference. Never had I been engulfed in so much hairspray in my life. Coughing and sputtering, I heard the angry sounds of an aroused media. The reporters, all of whom looked like Lois Lane and Jimmy Olsen, were jumping up and down and stamping their feet. Their anger was directed at the White House Press Secretary, Sam Spicy. Spicy wore a cheap suit (Is Robert Hall still in business?) and emitted a strong smell of Jade East. It is rumored that Spicy is not Sam’s real name, but a nickname that was pinned on him in childhood because of his obsession with oregano.
Spicy is accusing me of distorting the truth, attempting to delegitimize the new president and cheating on my expense account. In addition, Spicy is angry because I laughed at the length of the president’s made-in-China tie. Fade to black. I wake up interviewing Kellyanne Conniver. Conniver tells me that she has been named to the president’s cabinet as the Minister of Untruth.
I ask Kellyanne why the new president has named people to head the very agencies they want to destroy. She accuses me of lacking a sense of humor. When I try to follow-up, she changes the subject and complains that I deliberately underestimated the crowd size at the president’s recent inauguration. She also accuses me of deliberately underestimating the president’s vote count, as well as underestimating the size of his hands and private parts. When I show her proof that my estimates are correct in every respect, she tells me about the concept of “alternative facts.” Apparently in Wonderland, which is the name of where I find myself, they not only celebrate unbirthdays, but unfacts as well. I love Kellyanne’s perpetual smile. She merrily wishes me a very “Happy Unbirthday.” “The Earth is flat,” she declares after the president has just signed an executive order to prove it. When I protest, she simply says, “Unfact” and runs off.
I chase after her. All through Wonderland, I see buildings bearing the name of the new President. I realize that everything bears his name, bridges, street signs, even manhole covers. I even see his name on food such as steak, purified water, and everything that’s fried.
On every street corner, there are images of the new president. All these images have been covered with obscene quotes from Madonna. I see citizens of Wonderland walking along the street. Their hair and faces are orange. Over my shoulder, I see Kellyanne disappear into a library. I follow her.
Once inside, I look everywhere but I can’t find her. There is a meeting going on in the library and I’m told citizens are receiving instructions on the meaning and use of the word “exaggeration.” The new President is a big fan (make that a huge fan) of the use of exaggeration. Hereafter through the kingdom of Wonderland, everyone will exaggerate. Everything positive is “terrific,” the “greatest,” and the “best.” Things or people that we don’t like will be referred to as the “worst.” I fade to black again, and when I wake up, I find myself facing a draft board headed by the head of the American Federation of Television and Radio Artists.
“You have been drafted number one,” the official tells me. I’m ecstatic (not just happy) because being drafted number one means that I will earn bushels of money and (if my wife allows me) get a date with Rihanna. But I find out that this is not that kind of draft. The White House has gotten Congress to issue a declaration of war against the media. And I’m first in the draft lottery.
I’m to report to a media army being raised by CNN. I’m in the infantry under Gen. Anderson Cooper and am quickly issued a uniform bearing a picture of Ted Turner. I scream that I’m entitled to a deferment because I’m every bit as unqualified as the new president and former Vice President Dick Cheney, both of whom received five deferments. Failing to get a deferment, I ask for a cushy assignment away from the front lines where I can lie like Brian Williams and perhaps (if my wife allows me — even in my dreams I ask permission) have an intimate relationship with Maureen Dowd. In my sordid past, I admittedly used to visit an attractive librarian-prostitute with whom I discussed Einstein’s Theory of Relativity. Our affair ended when we argued over whether MC was really squared and whether polar bears have any kind of future.
I awoke from my nightmare before I found out how the war between the media and the White House ended. I suspect the media lost because I find myself in prison where there is a TV with no premium channels.
