I was riding shotgun with Donald Trump in a white panel van. It was loaded down with construction equipment dangling from the interior walls and taking up all the floor space. We were on our way to build a wall.
Donald was in a hurry, weaving in and out of heavy rush hour traffic, muttering to himself. We got behind a particularly slowing moving pick up truck. Frustrated with the delay, Donald swung the van onto the shoulder and floored it. As we ran out of useable pavement beneath us, we went off road, driving over grassy hills and knolls. The combination of speed and the unevenness of the ground proved too much for our van, and it began to flip, first back to front, back to front and then sideways.
In slow motion, Donald and I watched the world spin as we tumbled and flipped, the van finally came to a stop, upside down. We hung suspended by our seatbelts, thankful neither of us were hurt.
We freed ourselves from our crumpled prison, and made our way to my mother, who was waiting outside a midwestern farmhouse surrounded by dried and dusty cornfields.
“There you are,” she said in exasperation. “Do you know how long you’ve been gone?!? NINE MONTHS! You’ve been gone nine whole months!! I knew it. I knew the aliens were going to take you.” She shook her head in disappointment.
And that’s when I woke up.
I think I’m going to lay off the Spicy Green Curry from now on… at least close to bedtime!