Strange Rumblings From The Hinterland

I had a dream the other night.
I was watching an infomercial for a juicer that will cut your grocery bills into tiny shreds. The host was wearing a loud sweater, with a swastika on each shoulder.
I had a dream.
In the dream the host was talking to the inventor. The inventor was wearing a golf shirt, khaki shorts and converse sneakers. He kept pushing his aviator sunglasses up on his forehead and pulling them back down.
I had a dream the other night.
The juicer was impressive, indeed it was an awe-inspiring task of engineering. Large and imposing, with hoses and wires and chrome bits and white bits. Large teeth and what looked like a chain from a chain-saw and other pointy things sticking out at weird angles. A truly awe-inspiring task of engineering, a monstrous piece of machinery. It stood twelve feet high, it lay across two executive desks and was started with a pull on a cord. Sixteen homeless men were required to carry the juicer into the room. Three Catholic virgins were needed to pull on the cord and bring the beast to life.
I had a dream the other night.
The inventor fed fruit into the juicer at first. Oranges and limes and apples and melons and berries and grapes and kiwis. And then he started adding vegetables and then he started adding office furniture and carpeting and window coverings and then he started throwing in electronic equipment without unplugging it first, sparks flying everywhere, small fires breaking out and stamped out by the production assistants and the audience.
I had a dream the other night.
The host was screaming, frothing at the mouth, dancing like bug on a hot-plate. The host would sometimes crouch down, make himself a wee ball, then leap into the air hitting heights of eight, maybe nine feet. Wailing the entire time in a strange language known only to himself and his tribe.
And then the host stopped moving, stopped jumping and leaping and dancing. The host was silent. He raised his hand. He pointed at the inventor with a gnarled finger, a finger covered in snot and blood. He pointed at the inventor, with a glaze in his eyes and a growing stain in his pants. He pointed at the inventor and mumbled in a voice from the deep south, "Where are the virgins? Bring me the virgins. Bring me them now. Where are the homeless? Bring them to me. Where are they? We must make more juice."
I had a dream the other night.
And the inventor seemed to sense the danger, the lightening in the air. The inventor paused for a fraction of a second, frozen in place, a piece of lawn furniture in his hands forgotten. And then he smiled. A grim smile. A smile of a man who has driven to the edge of the cliff. A smile of a man who has faced a gang of armed militants armed with only a bowie knife. A smile that has tasted the blood of fiends and the wrong.
I had a dream the other night.
The inventor dropped the piece of lawn furniture to the floor. The inventor continued to smile. He slowly crept towards the host. The inventor continued to smile. "Now, hoss," he purred, "why did you have to say something like that? Tell me, pig-fucker, why did you have to go and ruin The Fun and say something like that?"
I had a dream the other night.
"You want more juice, pig-fucker? You want more juice? You don't see we're making Art here? We're making Fun? I'm going to teach you about Joy, pig-fucker. I'm going to bring you to Nirvana." And with one smooth motion the inventor grabbed the host by the crotch. And he lifted the host up, up above his head and tossed him like a bag of dirty laundry. And the host flew across the infomercial stage, over the smoldering remains of a sofa, over the small bits of electronic equipment that didn't make it into the juicer, over the heads of the virgins and the homeless, he flew. A look of horror mixed with extasy crossed the host's face as he arched across the stage. And with a mighty growl, nearly orgasmic, the juicer accepted its gift.
I had a dream the other night.

If you staggered into here expecting to find pictures of unclothed ladies flinging pooh, I apologize. I'm not from around here.
HST - we miss you.