I hate you, Joey Sunshine!!!

I’ve always hated Joe Theisman, and now its time to tell all of cyberspace why.

See, every once and a while, I dream Joe Theisman and some other guy I don’t know, but can’t stand, come into my house and bully me around. They trash the place, talk smack, and everytime I try to take a swing at them, I move in slow motion and they smack me around. I’m usually helpless, and they know it, and exploit it.

I usually wake up while they’re kicking my ass. This dream recurs every couple of years or so, yet, I thought I kicked it the last time I was in North Carolina.

See that night, I dreamed The Leeman’s PT Cruiser broke down in the middle of a farm I spend some time at Ivanhoe, (also known as Nowhereland) North Carolina.

So, in the dream, I decided to call my buddy The Jimmer to come help me out (Now, the Jimmer is in Florida, I know, it’s a dream, reasoning is abstract, work with me here.).

The PT is making God-awful noises as I try to start it, engine crunching noises, and I am very upset. So I come back to the little bungalow I’m staying in at the time, and there’s Joe Theisman and the other guy, uninvited, in my pad.

See, every once and a while, I dream Joe Theisman and some other guy I don’t know, but can’t stand, come into my house and bully me around. They trash the place, talk smack, and everytime I try to take a swing at them, I move in slow motion and they smack me around. I’m usually helpless, and they know it, and exploit it. Have I mentioned that?

And this proceeds to happen. And I’m sick of it.

So I imagine I have the gun. I reach into the drawer and miraculously, there it is! This has never happened in this dream before. I finally have an equalizer. Time to layeth the smacketh down.

So, I walk into the bedroom that the two of them are just trashing it. There’s stuff everywhere and they are laughing and my blood is boiling.

“Hey Joe”, I ask “Which leg was it that you broke in that nationally televised game?” He points at his right leg, and I say “good” and proceed to shoot the left one.

Then I shoot the other guy in the shoulder. This makes me very happy. I’ve always hated that guy, whoever he is.

Then I tell them to get the hell out of my bungalow, get the hell out of my head and get the hell out of my life. They stagger out sobbing and much less obnoxious than they were before.

And I walk outside, watch them stagger through the fields, I look up at the sky and it begins to rain. I’m laughing.

Now that’s just a weird dream. And I haven’t seen Joe Theisman since.

Until last night.

Last night I dreamed I was at my standard locale, much like Grimjack at Munden’s, I was at the bar at Applebee’s. And as usual, I was ogling Michelle. (I mentioned her creamy goodness in a previous post. I love Michelle).

And I look up across the bar…. And there’s Joe Theisman.

The other guy wasn’t around. After all these years, I still don’t know who that guy is.

And we bore holes into each other with our stares and that son of a bitch Joe Theisman just kinda nods at me.

And then I woke up. Pissed.

So, Joe Theisman, you rat bastard, I get it.

It aint over.

That’s fine. That’s fine by me.

You want some. Come get some. Game on, bitch.

And that… is why I hate Joe Theisman.