INTERPRET MY DREAM* CONTEST!! ** (with guest blogger Meryl Streep)

I had this dream*: I was back at the Royal Conservatory of Music, but as an adult.

Oh really. How original!  This usually means you get to wear, for example, ridiculously undersized Buster Brown shoes and a sailor suit, unless it’s just the Buster Browns with knee socks.  Which is distressingly like Japanese porn.  Just add pigtails and some California rolls.

At any rate, I was practising piano in one of their studios when Meryl Streep as a teacher came in with her pupils – I had run overtime.  Like Big Surprise, right?

Meryl plays her as  a rather plaintive, gaunt figure in black, a cross between, say, Isabelle Huppert, Emily Dickinson and Meryl Streep.  Or Charlotte Rampling.  Or Meryl Streep playing Charlotte Rampling, which she would do better than Charlotte Rampling would.  I’m just surmising.  I mean, probably better.

Let’s all hear it for Meryl fucking Streep, Mistress of The Universe!

Where was I?  Oh, yeah.

The bit where you get frantic and confused:  I began to pack up, and in the process I became – altogether now – frantic and confused. I suddenly realize that it’s Meryl Streep’s bags I’m searching through and packing and repacking – and even more compromising, I’ve taken some of her valuables and put them in my pockets, like, gaspwhatever.

SWEDEN-THEME-FOOD
PRIZE:  Most of this NOT included. NOT PICTURED and probably NOT included:  Little Swedish flag stuck into the mashed potatoes. Mashed potatoes NOT included.

I’m missing reruns of Seinfeld for this?

I realize my mistake and confess to her, and start to return the valuables – documents, cards, pics of her children, there seems to be no end to the stuff – but she is horrified and offended and accusing. Nothing I say or do will convince her of my innocence or that it was just a mistake.

Yes, it’s the old “back at school with-optional-humiliating-nudity” trope. I leave the studio to find that there is a handwritten sign in the high-school-like hallway slyly publicising my mistake for all to see.

Oh Meryl, every dream has this sequence somewhere, you just can’t remember it.  This is why every time you go to evensong at Saint Swithin’s in the Mange you look at the minister and instead of his face you see a large, unruly vagina. OK?  So you can probably cut down on the Vicodin.

Random musings to convince you that if you spend another three hours on this rubbish you’ll extract some kind of life-lesson that you can subsequently spin into a spiritual cash-cow type product that preys on people’s stupidity.  q.v. “The Secret”: But WHY has this happened? What’s my EXCUSE? Is it the darkness of the studio, my haste, the fact that I keep putting on her thin-framed, unattractive spectacles?  My overweening desire to sit around doing nothing and get paid?

Oh, fuck it.

I mean, I’m trying to milk this puppy for all the foreshadowing I can get and it still reads like a rejected script for “Pee-wee’s Playhouse”.  That’s the episode where Meryl Streep plays everything, including the postman, the fat chick and all of the toys, cause she had some spare time on her coffee break or something. I’m telling you, her “Little Red Fire Engine” is devastating.
And that’s even before she sings “Die Winterreise” from memory in the original German, while accompanying herself on a replica fortepiano she built in her hobby room.
Why don’t we all just kill ourselves so Meryl can do everything?  Hey, Meryl for POTUS ! Meryl for CEO of Con-Agra!   Meryl for—Hey Meryl –  wanna write this blog post, too, I bet, don’tcha!The dream goes through a dissolve and now Meryl Streep is writing this blog post.  Go on!  Knock me over with a girder! 

CONTEST**: Interpret my dream*!  (by guest blogger Meryl Streep)

Meryl Streep:  (sounding exactly like David.  No.  Better than David.  Her comic timing is impeccable.)  You may be wondering so here’s why you should just do this:  I’ll Purolator a single IKEA Swedish meatball*** with a tiny container of lingonberry preserves to the author of the best and most convincing exegesis.

Entry fee: $500.¹  I know, I know, just see the footnote. You must perform a skill-testing question that will probably involve pronouncing the word “exegesis” and naming all of the Canadian Governors-General since Confederation. OK, one Governor-General.

No it’s not Sarah Palin.

Entries MUST be written with a fountain pen in INDIGO BLUE INK, preferably in those little plastic vials that used to explode all over your pencil case and get on your white shirt.  See, it’s like having a dream* along with me!  Never, and Virginia, if you’ve forgotten, I’m going to remind you to never never never again forget how good I am to you.   N-E-V-E-R.  Now get those pens scritchy-scratching!


*       DREAM is genuine.
**    CONTEST is bogus and anyway it ended yesterday.
***  See picture.  DISCLAIMER: Serving suggestion only. ONE meatball delivered per winning entry. Meatball MAY or MAY NOT contain “meat”.  I reserve the right to have Meryl Streep play the meatball.  

Lingonberry preserves included, quantity may vary from that pictured.

Prize does NOT include creamy mashed or possibly puréed? potatoes OR garnish of frozen-then-microwaved “petits pois”.

OR lovely IKEA plate. I broke them all. Anyway.

Meatball pre-dates IKEA meatball recall of 2013. Use at own risk.

ONE entry per household. ONE this. ONE that. More rules, more rules. Blah blah blah.

merylstreep

 

¹ I know.  But it discourages the the riff-raff, along with the word “exegesis”.


Quick note from  guest blogger:  

This was a supremely challenging role, David.  I think the worst part was mastering the “oot and aboot thing”.  And when I say I didn’t eat, I truly mean I did not eat for a full week!  I think the correct plural for “Governor-General” was a sweet touch of calculated authenticity.  And I know you do, too.

That’s all for now, love.  Thanks for the opportunity to suck all the oxygen out of another role!  I’ll give you a charmless, self-satisfied hug once I flesh out some back-story.  Aren’t I just the best? LOL! It’s a rhetorical question!

Bisousthat means “kisses” in French!  I was pretty sure you wouldn’t know that unless of course you went to Yale! 

Meryl

~

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Cooking for Str8 Dudes #543 (with guest blogger Émile Iscoffatyeu, world-renowned personal chef and chick-magnet)

escoffier
“La bonne cuisine et un bon cul de salope est la fondation du véritable bonheur!”  – Emile Iscoffatyeu

ÉMILE ISCOFFATYEU:

Today’s, like, super-gourmet chick-magnet nosh is:

Refrigerator-preserved “Guggenheim” limes™
with
Char-grilled cinders of Dempster’s bagel™

Fuckin’ A, zut alors !

Ingredients:

2   limes (round green thing found at Loblaws)

1    bagel (round brown thing with a hole in the middle found at Loblaws, not to be confused with the round brown things with a hole in the middle found at Tim Hortons, which are donuts)

For serving:

1    plate  (round white thing found at – seriously, dude, you getting this down?)

Serves:  You and one skanky ‘ho.  Maybe her three-year-old.  Depends. Who are we kidding, no one’s eating this crap once her panties are off.  Which is on the bus on her way to your apartment if I’m thinking of the right skanky ‘ho.

Yeu may be – ‘ow do yeu say ? – wondering:

How to get more pussy:

Robin_20150408_0008
Refrigerator-preserved Guggenheim lime.

1. Two years ago, put the limes in the refrigerator.  We recommend waaaaay at the back, behind the Hellman’s jar with the blue fur in it.  Otherwise that other ‘ho you met – the one from AA with the partial plate and a taste for margaritas – is bound to commandeer them, if only to stuff them down her bra.  Right on!

2. Now, after reaching into your soiled boxer shorts and fondling your balls for 10 minutes*, take the limes out.

* as balls vary in size and fondle-ability, this timing is only a guideline.

 Where was I?  Oh yeah, limes. If you’ve left them for two years properly they will be hard, brown-skinned and basically resemble a poorly-executed Frank Gehry maquette for the Bilbao Guggenheim.

(What the heck is a Bilbao?  Is that, like, a sex toy or the furry dude from Middle Earth? – ed.)

3. Plate the limes.  

Yeah, “plate” them.

????

Fuck, man, put the limes on the plate, OK?  You want more pussy or what?  Seriously??

4. Meanwhile, attend to the bagel:  With your electric broiler on “high”, place the cut sides of the bagel face up and as close to the element as possible.  Now’s the perfect time to tackle that two-four while cruising “meet-another-skanky-ho dot com” with your pants around your ankles. High five, bro!!

bgels_20150123_0145
Char-grilled cinders of Dempster’s bagel. (Enlarged to show texture.)

5.   Regain consciousness two hours later and send the fire brigade home, after first decking the dude who shook you awake.  Like, back off, fire-‘mo!

(Maybe – ask him about the Bilbao Middle Earth thing? – ed.)

6.   Call up the ‘ho with the partial plate ’cause she hasn’t eaten since 1985 and you haven’t gotten laid since ?  Yesterday?   Kind of a blur isn’t it?!

Fuckin’ LOL, dude!!

7.  Plate.  Partial.  Down her bra.

8.  And a dildao.

~