So last night I had a strange dream.

I was working in a standard, generic-style office environment. I had a desk out in the open, with a library cart next to my desk, and my boss’s desk was near mine. My boss in the dream was Jon Hamm, dressed like Don Draper.

So I was working at this job, in the dream, and at one point I got up to make coffee and then decided to fall asleep at my desk. I woke up, in the dream, and Jon Hamm was driving me somewhere in his car. I was like “Oh creeze, Mr. Hamm, I’m sorry I just straight-up fell asleep through seven hours on the clock!”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, and then it became apparent that we were headed to another work function.

We pulled up to some building and walked inside, and there was just row after row of people sitting at cafeteria tables, with mounds of hotdogs piled up on trays every few feet. I intuited that this was every employee of my new company, and that this was a massive hotdog eating contest.

You should know that I think hotdog eating contests are gross as hell. I watched Bill take place in one a few years ago– eating hotdogs until there were literally tears streaming out of his reddened eyes— and it always seemed like one of the most awful things that a person can do. Also, as a gentleman of a certain stature, I have issues with getting up in front of a bunch of people and performing gluttony as a spectator sport.

So I sat down at an empty spot at one of the tables, and figured I’d just sit there and not eat any hotdogs, and then one of the other people at the table figured out that I was planning on nonparticipation, and started busting my balls about how I needed to take part in this team-building activity or whatever. Fucking fine, I thought, and grabbed a hotdog; I’m sure I can perform at least reasonably well. Bill got through about a half-dozen of the things in five minutes, if I recall correctly.

Unfortunately, once I had the hotdog in my hand, I realized that it was some kind of massive goddamn half-pounder or something, all kosher beef, and was packed into what looked like some kind of artisanal hoagie bun. I gritted my teeth and started eating the goddamn hotdogs. I got through two and a half of ’em before I woke up. It was time to go get brunch with Barb and my mother-in-law.

I swear to you that I felt just full as a tick. Those two-point-five “dream dogs” were taking up what felt like very real space in the ol’ tum-tum. Not for very long, but for a little while after I woke up I felt just disgustingly overstuffed.

And now, a picture of one of my cats turtling on the carpet.

* I’m sure that if you’re some kind of pervert Freudian, you’ll probably interpret that whole thing as some sort of fear-dream that I’ll have to huff all kinds of metaphorical dongs at my new job. I personally think Freud was full of shit and deep-throated one too many cigars, and that in this instance, being forced to put cylindrical meaty objects in my mouth is just being forced to put cylindrical meaty objects in my mouth. So there. You dirty-minded jerks.

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