One Whipped Mother

Dreaming of David Letterman

Okay, so I deleted the posts that had to do with O.J. Satan, because, really, I see no point in having them up now. They were taking up room, and anybody that knows me knows I like a tidy space.

But hey, David Letterman appeared in my dream world last night, which was very welcome indeed. I’ve had a silly crush on that man since I was a wee tot (look, at my age, eighteen or nineteen is wee), yet never dreamt of him before. No, I usually dream of Elton John and old Daddy Bush, occasionally Wolfgang Puck, and once, Ashton Kutcher, but it is the rare delight when my crushes grace me with their celestial presence.

Oh, hang on a sec….I just remembered my Bill Clinton dream, back when he was running the country, and OOOOO-weeeeeeeeeeeeee! that was a hot dream, for sure. I’d been dressed as a Native American maiden, and Bill had nothing on but a rawhide diaper, and I was riding his back like the magnificent stallion he is, and…

Anyway.

I sent Mr. Letterman a video of myself prancing about, striking super model poses in a room of mirrors, all while performing a killer standup routine -- fully clothed, mind you -- and lo and behold, he really, really enjoyed it, so much so, he appeared before me while I was investigating a haunted house here in Rochester.

Thing is, although he said he enjoyed my video, and I felt the sexual tension between us, I also felt a strange awareness of being mocked. I studied the gap between his teeth, his lips, his eyebrows, for signs of mockery, but saw only expressions of lust. Yet, something didn’t set right with me, something familiar was tapping at the door of Common Sense Central (an exclusive club located somewhere deep in my brain). It was a recognizable, nostalgic feeling, that finger-down-the-backbone feeling of public humiliation -- you know, like when that group of kids in eighth grade pretended to like you, were nice to you when they weren’t with their posse, but when in flagrante posse, whispered and snickered when you walked past them in the hall, or when those same kids sat behind you on the bus and shot spitballs into your hair, when only moments before, they‘d asked for your help on a homework assignment?

Yeah, that feeling.

Before I could fully grasp the reasoning behind my unpleasant feelings of being made fun of, despite Mr. Letterman’s apparent lust for yours truly (and when I say “apparent,” I mean APPARENT), Conan O’Brien stuck his head around the corner, gave me a toothy grin, then proceeded to groom himself by licking his arm while emitting odd cat-like sounds. End of dream.

I ate about fifteen pounds of leftover turkey last night, by the way.

ADDENDUM: Ooops. Totally didn't even think about the fact that if I delete my Open Letter to O.J. Simpson post, folks coming from Slate will be greeted with a big ball of empty nothingness...Sorry. I am, most certainly, a giant dick.

posted by Ms. Lori @ 11:20 AM