Last night I had a dream that I was in a bowling alley called Klonopins. It was long and awesome (that’s what she said). Just past the greasy shoe jerk castaway on the median island of aerosol and ugly elf shoes was the kid’s version of the elder’s bar, the video game arcade. I eagerly entered like a Mormon with first butt sex and jumped on the first machine like a Mormon’s last trampoline session. The game seemed familiar enough, from my childhood. A time where video games were a special event when you found your little self at a neighborhood pizza parlor and quickly escaped to the nook in the corner, meant for kids losing quarters and yourself just long enough to regain your unadulterated freedom before one of your parents grab you and pull you out. This dreamscape arcade housed vast nostalgia for those early years of getting dumber as most lucid video game dreams do, while this time I’m equipped with a sedated adult’s cynicism, determination, and overwhelming drive to take any little dirty parentless brat down with me. Peter Gunn was not a porno director but the theme waves about the arcade like a dark contained fart. I’m driving a convertible 1985 El Dorado down an infinite highway, dodging cars and spraying smoke screen and oil out the back of the car. My passenger keeps pouring beer on himself to infuse the tanning process while giant bats swarm all over us until we enter the back of a semi-truck (don’t ANALyze me) which seems to refuel our power and overall well-being for further highway swerving. “Fuck no, not today,” I mutter; “Where in the hell is that arcade?” A distant grey voice comes from the shitty part of my brain and advises me as my lawyer to discontinue playing the game SPY HUNTER S. THOMPSON. I move along.
I find myself at CENTAURPEED, another digital mash up of my repressed memories, pitting me as a spherical innate energy embedded into our fiberglass reality, as I mentally roll myself in all directions known to man (or woman) in my personal battle with the help of my avatar in the m(atr)ix, a half-horse all-hell manster, high octane piss-streamer, who shoots on all the phantastically illustrated greent 2-bit dots coming my way, drunk and unsteadily. Somewhere there’s a purple hopping octopus (eight vaginas) that appears as my Atari spirit animal, just to remind me that everything’s going to be ok. I try to get my friend the centaur to capture it with his magical yellow jets but not this time. Centaur peed, centaur missed. I neglected to mention this part in therapy last Tuesday, probably wouldn’t have believed me. My psychiatrist is fucking crazy. djf j uhuhuhuhsdjf zzzq
About this time I’m finding my pole position in the universe. Croaking big time after a few rounds of FROG, FROGGER, FROGGEST, my main focus is ASSROIDS. I’m a 1-D triangle in infinite-dimensional space spinning around shooting bumps off an ass universe. My dog shows up and starts sniffing my butt on my last guy, no end in site. I get paranoid and float over to the other cluster.
FUDGE PAC-MAN and DONKY DONG: I’ve played these games too many times already, and why are they always next to each other?
ROOT BEER CRAPPER. I don’t usually drink root beer when I’m shitting on a bar stool, but it seemed fun at the time.
LADY GALAGA had me dressed like a K-mart Madonna but with a dick and shooting down intergalactic snakes and monsters that move about in patterns like lego Nazca Lines but in the depths of space hell. Pretty fuckin’ weird.
MS. PAC-MAN?? Fuck that! PAC-WOMAN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
What in the hell is Wii-Tennis doing here? I’d rather play with my Wii-ner!
As I left the arcade I passed by two burnouts passed out on a couple of vintage game cabinets, right under a sign which read KLONOPINBALL. This place was great! I didn’t see any bowling at all (memories still repressed). I love this place.
If you’re in the area, and are in the right mindset, I recommend Klonopins.
Fuck Michael Stipe but this dream was pretty cool.