Last year at this time I was running around like a crazy person because I was moving, buying a house, celebrating my birthday, meeting my boyfriend and basically drinking every single night of the week at Frazier’s with my pal Dee Dee. One evening, when I finally had a few minutes to relax before going out, my brother showed me a clip from Burt Sugarman’s Midnight Special:
I enjoyed it, had a good laugh at pretty much everything happening in the video and moved on. My subconscious, however, had different plans–that tart.
That night, while I slept, my subconscious awoke, got all skanked up and took me on over to the house of Wolfman Jack for perhaps the most disgusting sex dream experience that I’ve ever had in my life. It was awful. Thinking about it now sends shivers down my spine, and no, I don’t mean the good kind. Why would my subconscious betray me in this way? I thought we were friends, but no, not that night. That night my subconscious whore had sex with Wolfman Jack while You Sexy Thing played in the background on my subconscious stereo. Gross.
This is the look he had on his face the whole time:
How appalled are you right now? Then, to make matters worse, Wolfman Jack kicked me out of his house after he was done. That ass! I didn’t have time to pick up my clothes so I walked home naked. My subconscious even went through the trouble of making the mascara run down my face as I cried. I was just so hurt that Wolfman Jack used me like that.
So what the hell? What did it all mean? Was that some sort of warning? Did Wolfman Jack’s ghost channel me through the cheap vodka I drank that night? How did my subconscious know his address? The world may never know.