Politics

Dreams of My Father… Not Obama’s

I had a dream last night. I woke in the middle of the night nearly laughing. I had to be careful not to wake the Doll. 

I usually awake from a dream with a feeling of dread and foreboding, even if the dream was pleasant. I’ve been experiencing this for the last six years. I don’t know what is causing this, but I have a theory.

However, as noted, this dream was different.

You are probably aware how dreams can be weird.  For example, you’re transported back to Sixth Grade and you’re being chewed out by your great Aunt Eunice for running through her favorite flower bed. You try to beg off by blaming your brother who threw you the football, but was sloppy. You couldn’t help it. The pass had to be caught. What if it had been the Superbowl? (This predates the Superbowl because they didn’t start for a few more years. Imagine a world without Superbowls! Yet we lived. I can recall a time without television…at least at our house. Yet we lived.) Foolishly, it is suggested that one lousy geranium plant having been trod upon doesn’t matter in the great scheme of things. Aunt Eunice is unimpressed with this logic. Fortunately Dad was not present in this particular dream sequence to witness such impertinence or the dread and foreboding would have begun in earnest right after my defense.

A brief footnote helps inform you about this dream …and Eunice. After Uncle Harry died (we never learned what Harry did for a living), Aunt Eunice used to drive her old pink and black Desoto downtown in Westport, Indiana (pop. 300 +/-), which was a short trip, but interesting because Eunice had no driver’s license, nor could she drive. As you can see, things were different then. No Superbowl. Old ladies loved and tended their own geranium plots and simply ignored minor government intrusion in their lives.

This sequence now bleeds into another scene and shifts some characters. Now Eunice’s sister, my grandmother, Helen, is chewing me out because my little brother and I had splashed some water out of her bathtub, while playing water games instead of bathing. We were very small, then. Again, the blame was placed on my little brother. He was the careless one who did the splashing. Even though I cannot see any water on the bathroom floor my argument again proves unpersuasive. Mom never had any kids smaller than six foot in height (except one shrimpy sister) and now if any of us got into a bathtub it would be impossible for anyone else to as much as stick a toe into the tub…let alone engage in aquatic sports with my brother when Grandma left the room momentarily. We were very, very small then.

shadowsThe scene shifts again. Now the cops are interrogating me because Grandma and Eunice have pulled off a bank robbery in the bank Grandma’s daddy started. I tell the cops I didn’t even know my Grandma had a gun. She always seemed to hate them. There were never any toy guns under her Christmas tree for her precious little grandsons. She probably thought we were already too violent as evidenced by our utter disregard for geranium beds. Before leaving this dream scenario, please note my having noticed that a toy box of my mom’s little brother contained a toy tank. Why my Grandma kept this small scale tin implement of war around I do not understand. It was cool. It was those first tanks where the tracks are taller than the tank and the big gun was mounted on the side. The tank’s details were painted and very detailed. A beautiful antique.

The cops ain’t buyin’ it and, fortunately, the scene shifts again. (I have no explanation for the next segue.) Now I drift into a school classroom where people in dark suits are crowded up to an old blackboard reading several short chalked sentences. The people in suits are reading and are happy with what they are reading. They are quiet but very enthusiastic. I get closer and look at the board. The sentences are each an individual indictment of Obama’s failures. The suits are, it turns out, people who had voted for Obama but have finally asked themselves “what has he done that is good?” Having found no answer, these people are changing their minds completely about Obama, socialism and all other commies.

At that point I awoke and immediately realized it was all a dream. Especially the socialists in suits who had finally changed their minds about Obama. Apparently impossible, even in dreams.

Now you know why, for the last six years, I have been waking from dreams in dread.

 

The views expressed in this opinion article are solely those of their author and are not necessarily either shared or endorsed by EagleRising.com


About the author

Stephen Bowers

Stephen Bowers

I am an attorney in Las Vegas who has always wanted to draw political cartoons, partly because I like drawing, but mostly because I enjoy ridiculing pompous know-nothings. Verbally debating them gets nowhere. They don't know they're beaten. But poking fun at them in a drawing leaves them without recourse or rebuttal. What can they do...? Call me names, whine, cuss me ... or maybe draw a witty riposte? Unlikely.
Steve Bowers, Esq.

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