Man, I like to sleep. A lot. Like, so much, that I should come up with some kind of condition that I have, other than laziness, to explain it. I will sleep fourteen hours a day if you let me.
I used “Mono” as an excuse for a while, after I had it my freshman year of college, but it’s been (I am) getting old. I might have to try that S.A.D. thing, or the chronic tired hooseywhatsee. For the past few months, I’ve excused my abandonment of any other goal by the fact that I have just given up caffeine.
It’s not my fault that I am still asleep at noon! You people are awake because you’re on DRUGS!! DRUGS!!!!!!! The lord hates drugs!!!!! Hates! Drugs! Lord! Zzzzzzzzzz….
That reminds me of a joke that I would tell, if I were a preacher:
Me: Knock knock.
A single voice emerges from the congregation.
Single voice: Who’s there?
There is silence. Finally, the voice speaks again, this time joined by a few other courageous people.
People: Jesus who?
Me: That’s what I thought.
Sabrina exits the church. The people are stunned.
Anyway. What was I saying? Sleep! My husband is the greatest because he doesn’t judge my need to sleep for nine to fifteen hours a day. In fact, he will get up at seven, go to work, come home at four, find me covered in cracker crumbs and sleeping on the couch in front of a Jennifer Aniston movie and say something like, “That’s great, honey! I’m glad you got some rest today! Do you need some vacuuming?” That’s my guy! (Please don’t tell him my Mono has worn off? Thanks!)
It’s one in the afternoon, and I just woke up from a dream about Booby Hatch. Yes, THE Booby Hatch. We were doing a show at a comedy club and everything went wrong. The music cues were off, we forgot the lyrics and choreography (yes, there was choreography at some point) to “Suck It,” and I forgot to bring my Hitler moustache. I distinctly remember Katharine yelling, “Where are the wigs??” and Alex singing some improvised lyrics and jumping off the stage like Kurt Cobain. Then, before we could even start our second sketch, all of the lights in the theater stopped working. When the lights had been fixed, the club management started the next act, which seemed to be a girl singing “Me and My Shadow” off-key, by herself. I asked Kath if they were going to let us finish our show, and she said, “I don’t think so. I think that’s it. We’re done.”
After that, I went to see a show at another comedy club. My friend Kevin was doing stand-up and making balloon animals. First he got heckled: “Enough with the jokes! More balloon animals! We gotta move this thing along! Deadlines!!” Then he was asked to leave.
What was this dream? A statement on the conditions of the comedy scene? A resignation letter from my soul?
Oh, subconscious, you have overstepped your bounds yet again. Let’s clear something up, Sport. I do not come to you (for nine to fourteen hours a day) to have you air your NPR opinions all over me. I come to you so that I can fly and talk to dead pets!! What are you doing? For your information, I prefer the dream I had the other night: I had a baby, and I was teaching it how to do tricks, like how to sit up and beg or roll over. Then the baby became a Weiner Dog and it bit the lipstick I was using as an incentive to make the baby/dog do tricks. Then I hugged the Weiner Dog and said, “Be careful. I’ve always wanted to hit a Weiner Dog.”
Now, that’s a dream!!! Only…well, not to complain, but I should have been a spy or something too. And Norm MacDonald should have been there with candy.
Am I alone on this? Look, our brains can make anything happen when we sleep. Anything. But instead of you being a judge at Hugh Jackman’s Weiner Dog parade or living in a blueberry muffin factory on the moon, you’ll be working in your office or riding on the subway or doing some other boring something that you just did and probably have to go do again when you wake up. What? WHAT??
COME ON!! I have to live this life–don’t make me dream about it! And lay off the statements and lessons! Most importantly, stop trying to heal my psychological wounds! Those wounds have created me and fuel my comedy writing! Back off! Enough, says I!! We want dogs with tiny legs and mutant abilities!! Hugh Jackman and candy!!
I’m serious. If this doesn’t start improving, I might have to forgo a few hours of sleep and start improving my life. COME ON!!!
Stay tuned for next month’s blog, titled “You know what I hate? Everything.”