Dream Girl

So I had this dream last night …
Now, I know what I’ve said about dreams in the past, but hey, it’s different when the dreams are mine. And sure, I know that’s a double standard, but so what? Double standards, like money, make the world go ’round. And if you don’t believe me, ask the hyper-cool Greg Brady as he appears in the episode where he tries to shake a girl named Carrie, for whom Peter has googly eyes, and he and Marcia stage a scene where Greg, in an attempt to show Carrie what a cad he is, tells Carrie she’s only allowed to date him but he’s allowed to see any chick he wants.
So, anyway. This is about dreams — not dreamboats like Greg Brady. So on with it.
I had this dream last night. I was in a classroom (but wearing pants and without an incidental mustache, unlike many of my other dreams) and had just taken a test. Somehow the teacher got wind that quite a few of the students had cheated, and those students’ papers were torn up and those students were dismissed from class. I remained behind — smug, superior, and outraged at those students’ transgressions. Until Salma Hayek burst into the room, pointed a finger at me, and “outted” me as one of the cheaters. Just when I thought I was safe, I was disgraced. And dismissed from the room.
I went out into the hall and fumed. Paced. Then I, like Salma, burst back into the classroom, where Salma had remained, and “outted” her as “the one who ratted on me”. I sang a song about rats and disloyalty. It was rollicking. It rhymed. I danced around a chair placed at the front of the room. Salma was in that chair. Everyone in the class was bopping along to the song and dance. The applause was deafening, and Salma was boo’d out of the room.
I left the room a star, but once out in the hallway, a team of four Salma-esque chiquitas, all with slick glossy hair and smoky purplish eyeshadow, cornered me and then marched me down the hallway — two in front of me, two in back — to a filthy room filled with bad bad girls. I was to do whatever the lead Salma told me to do.
So I obeyed. I got down on my hands and knees. I licked the filthy tile floor, as she did. “Get the grout now, where there’s chemical waste,” she instructed, showing me how to do it properly. “Now get this spot where everyone’s boots have stepped,” she instructed. Again she showed me how to do it properly. Apparently I was supposed to point my tongue more. So I did. What did I know? She was the boss.
Across the room were some blondes, all eating trayed lunches at long communal tables. A typical jailhouse cafeteria. Except all the girls were short-haired blondes. The lead Salma, like I, was incensed because our respective girlfriends were hitting on each other as she and I licked the floors.
And then the dream got really weird and involved the ocean, an opulent Thai cafe, and rugelach.
But you know what? It was all so ridiculous. I mean, I don’t even like blondes!