Last night, I had the strangest dream.

I was in a van being driven by Dick Cheney, Vice President of Doom, and it began to careen and skid all over the New Jersey Turnpike. I went up to the front to see what was going on and found him literally falling asleep at the wheel. “Wake up!” I said. “We’re going to crash!” Anyone else would have heeded this warning, but Cheneyboy decided he would get some chuckles by taking his hands off the wheel and doing a little dance in his seat. “Nyah nyah nyah!” he sang.

In a series of surreally impossible events, as can only happen in nightmares and Tennessee, I finally convinced him to pull over and let me drive. He put on that malevolent Penguin face he has and swerved across three lanes of traffic into a service area, where the van lurched to a stop in front of a gas pump.

Then he slid out of his seat, kissed me on the lips with a cold passion that made me desperate to gargle with rubbing alcohol, called me a faggot, jumped out of the van, and vanished into the darkness beyond the atomic glare of the gas station lights.

Oh wonderful, I thought as I spat his saliva onto the pavement. At least we can now arrive safely at our intended destination.

Except he had taken the ignition keys.