“I was dreaming when I wrote this, forgive me if it goes astray.” – Prince And The Revolution
Last night, I had a dream. It went like this:
I was walking through the dessert. It was a stereotypical dessert, with stereotypical dunes behind me, with a stereotypical line of camels in the far off distance.
Que a quick shot to the stereotypical desert sun, shimming in the heat, where it does that thing that looks like it’s rotating, but it’s not and it looks like sun rays are shooting down to the ground with those little sun bubble things floating around it.
So I am walking, and walking. My sneakers are falling apart and my shirt is soaked with sweat. I’m walking like a zombie, which is ironic to say the least. The tracks I’m leaving in the sand are zig zaggy. One clear shoe print is left on the right side of my path, and the left side looks like a snail trail..
Suddenly…from out of nowhere, which makes sense since I am stuck right dab in the middle of nowhere, fifty Arabs on forty-seven galloping horses go…well…galloping by. As they go…well…galloping by two of the Arabs grab me by either arm and lift me into the air. I am now suspended in mid-air, going the speed of gallop, and screaming,
“Help! Don’t drop me! Who are you guys?”
In the distance I see a rather large tent, with several smaller tents circling it. They weren’t actually circling the large tent like a wagon posse, they were more or less placed around the large tent.
It doesn’t take long for the distance to become the close up and the Arabs face plant me on a red carpet in front of the large tent. I wonder if it’s time for me to except my Oscar award.
Picking red carpet fibers from my teeth and rubbing the side of my swollen face, I turn to the Arabs that have just thrown me down.
“What the hell?!” I yell.
The Arabs just point to the tent and raise their moon shaped swords. They look very mean and cartoonish at the same time. One of the Arabs is holding a monkey and is giving it an Uncrustable to eat. (Remember this is a dream.)
I walk into the tent.
Immediately a very large Arab grabs me by the neck and forces me to my knees. (Not that kind of dream.) In front of me is several steps. The steps lead to a throne. The throne holds a rather fat, sour looking Arab with a crown on his head.
The large Arab with the death clutch on my neck says to me,
“This is King Ubedube. He has not laughed in over 40 years. We will kill you…unless you can make the King laugh. But I must warn you…no one has ever made the King laugh.”
“At least you gave me an easy task,” I reply and the large Arab sneers at me.
“Does the King like Twitter?” I ask.
“The King likes Twitter. You can follow him @KingUbedubeLovesBitches,” Neck Grab responds.
“In my pocket is my phone. On my phone is Twitter. Let me get my phone and read him some tweets.”
The large Arab smashes me down to the carpet (Sorry, still not that kind of dream.) and pulls out my phone.
“I will read your tweets to the King myself. If you so much as move, I will kill you.”
“OK!” I yell. “I get it!”
The Arab opens my Twitter and reads to the KIng:
“A horse walks into a bar, the bartender asks him why the long face…The horse unable to understand English shits on the floor and leaves.”
The King doesn’t move. He just stares at me.
“What does that even mean?” asks the large Arab holding my phone.
“Well, it’s kind of a twist to the old horse joke, ‘Horse – Why the long face?'” I respond.
The room is suddenly filled with Arabs who are just looking at me stoned-faced and angry.
“I didn’t write it,” I stammer. “I just copied it from somewhere…”
“What is so funny about a horse shitting on the floor?” sneers the King.
“Oh, hey you talk,” I smile.
The King just looks at me, one eyebrow raised, the other eyebrow holding a sword ready to throw at my face.
“Like I said,” I said. “It’s about the bar, and the horse walking into it… never mind! You’re right. It’s not funny. Try reading some different tweets. Maybe read some from people I follow. You’ll have to find at least one funny.”
So the large Arab reads all 3000 and something tweets of mine, plus some from others. The King does not crack one smile, not even the slightest lip curl.
“What now, stupid-funny-man?” asks death grip Arab. “You’re pretty much a dead man!”
I think for a moment.
“I know,” I knowingly say. “Read him my WordPress. Maybe something in there will make him laugh.”
“What is WordPress?” asks the King.
“It’s a blogging website…”
“No blogs!” screams the King.
“Wait, wait! I’m not the traditional blogger! I’m not really gifted with the written word. I just kind of throw stupid stuff out there and hope it’s spelled right. Please give it a try. There has to be something in there you might possibly like…”
The King sits back and crosses his arms.
“If there is one recipe in there…” the King says and makes a motion with his finger across his neck.
“I’m not going to lie,” I reply. “There are recipes, but they are fake funny recipes.”
“I will allow this,” says the King. “Read me the White Devil’s blog.”
The large Arab reads the King every single one of my blogs.
The King does not laugh, smile, or even expel some gas. The King just sits at his throne and looks angry.
“I take it the King hated it.”
“I wouldn’t say hated it,” large Arab says. “He liked the zombie stories very much. He says you should write more zombie stories, less Arab dream stories.”
“He liked the zombie stories?” I sputter in disbelief. “Really?”
“Oh, yes. He would like to hear more zombie stories,” large Arab says with a smile.
“Wow! That’s great! So he is not going to have me killed?”
“No,” says large Arab as he runs a sword through my stomach. “You were suppose to make the King laugh, remember? Not scare the living crap out of him.”
And then I woke up and my wife had all the blankets.