I was late for work yesterday, after arriving 45 minutes later than I usually do. But since I usually show up around 8:30, I guess that only made me about 15 minutes late. And only then if you believe that 9:00 is the cut-off time, which I’m not even sure it is. The “core hours” are from 10:00 AM to 3:00 PM and The Bossman is pretty flexible – also I’m not completely convinced that he still remembers that I’m alive. But regardless, by my standards I was 45 minutes late. Which only makes it around the third time in like five months, which gives me a success rate of approximately 97.09%, which isn’t too bad. Although I have no idea how my .971 Days On Time (DOT) compares to the office-wide average. So in the absence of similar comparables, I’m forced to conclude that it looks pretty damn nice next to Martin “Best Goalie In The League” Brodeur’s pathetic 2005-2006 .911 SV%. In fact, I could have taken the 2005-2006 Crozier over Cristobal Huet if the NHL equated my Days On Time with their goalies’ save percentages.

(Speaking of our favourite sport, how’s ’bout them Islanders? Fresh off their third consecutive playoff-less season, they hire respected hockey dude Neil Smith – who put together the 1994 Messier-led Rangers that won the Stanley Cup – as their new GM…only to replace him 40 days later with their suddenly retired back-up goalie Garth Snow. And two months later he hands out an unprecedented FIFTEEN YEAR, guaranteed, $67.5 million contract to the guy that beat him out of the number one spot. DiPietro isn’t even all that good anyway. They’re going to be paying a 40 year-old goalie $4.5 million – and even Roy and Hasek didn’t last to 40. Hockey is retarded.)

Anyway, the reason I was late is because I was stuck in a dream. I heard the alarm, half woke up, and turned it off. And then I rested my eyes just for a little bit and I got sucked into half-sleep. It was there that I had this bizarre half-dream. I could actually see the time on my clock…only I knew that in real life the dimensions of my bedside table made that impossible. And it was getting later and later…only I couldn’t move. I couldn’t wake up. I knew I was going to be late for work, but this heavy sleep-weight kept me pinned down and I couldn’t muster up the willpower to break it.

And then…for some reason, in the dream, everyone I knew lived with me. It was weird…yet in the dream, it all made perfect sense and I didn’t question it. I do remember being vaguely disappointed at how comfortably everyone I knew managed to fit in my house. Or maybe that just means I have a big house. I started to gradually wake up and get myself in gear in the dream – getting out of bed, brushing my teeth, putting my work clothes on, walking downstairs to get some cereal – and throughout it all I was walking past all these people I knew. All in their pajamas as well, like they had just woke up, only quicker than me. And everyone was telling me that I was going to be late for work and that I should hurry up.

I remember walking around downstairs and I actually walking pass my boss, who told me that I should hurry up and get to work or else he would see me come in late. And I was thinking like “How does that make sense? What about you, motherfucker? You work with me! And why are you wearing my pajamas?” Yet it didn’t seem that weird, and I didn’t really confront him about it. In dream-hindsight, I should have asked him for a ride or at least how he was planning to get to work.

At this time I became aware that I was actually lying face down in bed in real life, but I still couldn’t move. Weirdest feeling ever. I had to summon all the willpower I could to break past the sleep barrier. I felt like I was charging up to throw like a fucking fireball made of pure chi or something. I managed to do it with a triumphant half mumble, and I didn’t so much get out of bed as just kind of…slithered out. And I glanced at the clock, and apparently like half an hour had passed while I was stuck.

Why does this happen to me? I want to fight ninjas, date Wonder Woman, or be chased through the dark woods by an axe murder who happens to have my face at the end of the dream or something. I don’t want slightly odd permutations of my own life to fill my dreams. The one chance I get to live out some crazy fantasy trip, and I waste it with dreams about going to work. Nice going, pons. Really good work you’re doing for me.

GIVE ME SOMETHING!!! I want my next dream to be about fighting Rocky in the ring, only we’re both dinosaurs and we have tiny useless T-Rex arms and oversized novelty boxing gloves. And then Heather Locklear comes in as a Malaysian bear and addresses me as the “Six Gun Sheriff” before having strange, physically impossible dinosaur/bear sex with me. Make that happen, and I give you total control over the rest of the anterior brainstem. And maybe the memory centers of my brain too – I won’t really need those anymore after that. Deal? Sleep on it, let me know in the morning.

“Well, would you like to hear me tell a joke?”
“Yeah. Yeah, we’d love to hear a joke from you.”
“Knock knock.”
“Who’s there?”
“Go fuck yourselves.”