Last Night I Had the Strangest Dream

Does anybody have weird dreams? I frequently find that I have some pretty oddball dreams. And I remember them all vividly. As I recount them to my wife, she tells me she can’t remember any of her dreams. Generally, she finds it kind of neat: that I have this ability to recall vivid aspects of my subconscious. But I don’t tell her about all of my dreams. Some are just too odd. Still, I’ve shared some doozies with her:

“Oh man, last night I had the WEIRDEST dream.”

“What was it this time?”

“I’m a little uncomfortable sharing it. It’s kind of one of those dreams I wish I didn’t have, or at least didn’t remember.”

“Just tell me.”

“I dreamt of my dead dog.”

“That’s not weird.”

I cringe. “Sexually. I dreamt of my dead dog sexually.”

“What?!”

“I know! I didn’t want to. As it was happening, I was like, ‘this is super weird.’ I was conscious of it. And conscious of the horribleness of it. I’ve been feeling very strange about it since last night.”

“That’s messed up,” she tells me. But it feels good to have told someone. A weight has been lifted. It’s as though my telling her, and her subsequently telling me that it’s messed up, absolves my mind of any concern that I may need help. That I may be a real-life dogfucker. Nope, just a fucked up dream. Well, I may need help, the jury’s out, but it feels better. That it’s been acknowledged and I’m not getting divorced puts my mind at ease.

And then there’s last night. No, last night I was not penetrating a dead animal, beloved or otherwise. Last night’s dream falls under the category of “Don’t tell your wife.” And being a guy who told his wife about dead dog sex dreams, it takes a lot to get into that category.

It started normally enough. I was at my friend Heather and Steve’s house. They were having a party. A bunch of people I knew were there. Current family and friends were there. Some people I haven’t seen since grade school. Isn’t it odd how these people show up 20 years later in a dream? “Hey Greg, haven’t seen you since we were children, and yet somehow my mind has projected an image of you as an adult that my mind accepts as real. Good to see you!”

I digress. Great party. We’re playing poker or cards of some sort. Grade school Greg, Heather, my wife, historical figures I couldn’t have met, they’re all there, and it’s time for a snack. I get up and go to the kitchen. And it’s vivid. In this dream, I am in Heather and Steve’s kitchen. Visually, it’s as close to reality as possible. And so I think it is reality in the dream. My conscious mind is fully present. And Heather’s got this great spread out on her island countertop. Chips and dips. Fruits. And heartier things, like fried chicken. I zero in on the bucket of fried chicken, reach in, pull out a piece and Heather walks into the room.

“Great party,” I tell her. “I love this spread.” I take a bite of the chicken leg and it registers as amazing. Fantastic. The ultimate chicken leg.

“Oh thanks. I’m glad you could make it.” Easy banter goes on, while I’m eating this chicken leg. My mind isn’t on the conversation I’m holding, it’s on how I can’t believe how good this chicken leg is. It’s flavorful, it’s moist, it’s got a crisp skin in every bite. Salty, greasy, heaven. And I don’t even like chicken legs.

“This chicken is great,” I say. She looks at the chicken leg. Her face goes blank. I look at the chicken leg. Only it’s not a chicken leg. It’s a baby leg.

A human baby leg. Anatomically correct. Removed at the top of the femur, so there’s a little hip flesh on there, all the way down to the five teeny little toes. It’s all there minus the large chunks of quadriceps that I’ve been masticating on.

And I am horrified. In the dream, I am horrified. I’m eating a baby leg. And Heather is horrified. She storms out of the room. Slowly, the shock dissipates. My conscious mind catches up with the dream, and the voice in my head says, “Well I guess baby leg tastes awesome!” And I take another bite.

Now at this point, I wake up. I literally woke myself up, sprung up in bed, and out loud said, “What the fuck.” And I began debating the meaning in my head.

Am I a cannibal? Did I just eat something bad before bed? After I realized what was happening, why was that my reaction? Why did I take another bite?! What is the meaning of this? No, no, no. I’m not doing this.

I look at the clock and see that it’s 3 AM. I decide it’s best to just repress this one and hope to forget. And I fall back asleep, and have pleasant dreams. Against all odds, I forget about the episode and fall back to sleep.

I wake up like any other day, which is to say I snooze four or five times, reluctantly get out of bed and stumble to the kitchen in my underwear. I turn on some coffee and go to take a shower. I turn on the hot water, and step back from the shower, letting it run a while to heat up. Take off my underwear. Step on the scale to weigh myself. 197. “Not bad,” I think. “Progress.” I turn around to test the water, it’s hot. I step in.

In the shower, normal routine. Pick up the soap, rub it on my neck. I let the hot water wash the sleep from my eyes and begin working the soap down my torso. But before I get to my armpits, a thought jumps into my head:

“Did I have a dream about eating a baby last night?” I make a confused face, like dogs do when they cock their heads. Furrowed brow. I’m pondering. I did. I did have a dream about eating a baby last night. I kind of laugh and chalk it up to “What the fuck is wrong with me.” But I can’t get it out of my head for the rest of the day.

It’s torturing me.

I have a nephew who’s three months old. Where did this come from? I’ve never thought about eating HIM. Or anyone for that matter. It’s never even crossed my mind.

I’m beating myself up all day over this.

 I need to see a therapist. I need to get God back in my life. I need more Vitamin B.

I cannot get over it. I go to work and the guy in the cubicle next to me says, “Hi, how’s it going” when I get in. All I can think is, “I ate a baby last night. How are you doing?” They serve chicken at the cafeteria for lunch. I think, “Dream baby tasted better.” Then my immediate next thought is, “Noooooooo! Shut up stupid voice that just said ‘dream baby tasted better’ in my head! Don’t exist! No, no, no, no, no!” The conscious voice in my head over punctuates like crazy.

 It was just a different version of that old scary story where the guy goes to get fried chicken and he gets a rat instead. Only instead of a rat it was a baby leg. And instead of stopping when I realized what it was, I thought “Well I guess baby leg tastes awesome!” Which makes it not a version of that story at all, but something real and twisted and dark and perverse inside of my mind!

It tortures me all day.

When I get home, I take a deep breath. I say to myself, “Let’s think this out. Let’s get rational.” And as I think about it, it occurs to me that I didn’t really discover anything outrageous in that dream. In all probability, baby probably does taste good. How can it not? We chain up baby cows so that they can’t walk or stand, so that when we slaughter them their muscles are sweet, tender veal. Baby baby is the same thing, but without the chains. Babies can’t hold their heads straight. Their neck muscles are so weak (read “tender”) that their skulls wobble to and fro. Or should I say, their delicious neck muscles?

Honestly, what’s going to be juicier: baby back ribs? Or baby baby back ribs? Baby baby back ribs. No contest. Those cows have been on their feet for months. Baby baby can’t even sit up! There is literally no shape to the muscles between those bones.

Next time you hold a baby, feel its leg. See if you can find any muscle definition. There is none. None! It’s just like this fleshy bulb screaming to be deep fried with a side of ranch dressing.

Shocking, I know. But it really needn’t be. I’ve thought this through thoroughly. I had to. Because I had to be okay with having that dream. And I am. Because vegetarians have the premise right. Cows, pigs, chickens, etc. These are living, sentient animals. They have emotions. They’re not human, but when you think about it, it’s no less odd to tear into their flesh for sustenance given the abundance of salad than it is to consume a baby. We destroy life needlessly because it tastes good. Where I part with vegetarians is in the conclusion. They say "don’t eat pigs, cows, etc. because it’s wrong." I say, “Why stop there?”

Thought experiment time! Suspend the emotional attachment you have to the concept of people. It’s difficult. But try. You go to a restaurant. You order filet. It comes out with a nice peppercorn crust and a side of mashed. You cut in. It’s red and juicy and it cuts like butter. You take a bite. Velvety. Then the waiter informs you it’s not a cow, it’s Uncle Bill. Did it still taste good? You're God damn right it did! You thought it was velvety! I told you to imagine that! What’s changed?! What’s your problem? Emotions? Your attachment to Uncle Bill?

I’m not saying we should murder. I’m not advocating that at all. I’m just saying Uncle Bill’s dead. And you’re going to bury him? You’re going to drain his lifeless body of blood, have some weirdo in a funeral home break his backbone, tack his eyelids shut, pump him full of formaldehyde, paint him, put him on display, and then bury him in the ground to nourish maggots and worms? People are starving. There is a food crisis going on. Put the guy to some use, damnit. People are always telling me to look at the bright side. Here’s a bright side for you:

There are food shortages in Africa? And you’re calling it an AIDS crisis? Throw them in a pot of water. I’m pretty sure you can boil the AIDS out. I call it an AIDS solution to world hunger. What’s that? I just put thousands of not-for-profit organizations out of business? Let them eat babies.

Not babies we killed. I’m not condoning murder. That’s not cool at all. Still born babies! The most tender of all. Your tragedy is Thanksgiving to the guy living under the overpass.

What's that? He got hit by a truck? Brilliant! He’s already been tenderized! He’ll braise like a charm!

No more funerals. Just feasts. Slow roast me over an open fire. Let the tough cuts go to the distant relatives. Let the prime cuts serve my immediate family. And so on, to the balls.

It’s fine. I know it sounds terrible. But it’s fine. Just let it settle. Go take a shower. By the time you get to your armpits, you’ll be reconsidering your funeral plans. And if I haven’t sold you, it’s not like I don’t think dog fucking is weird.