Once upon a time I was Porthos, the third Musketeer. The toughest of them all, the one with the crappiest name in literary history (I personally think that Ignatius Jacques Reilly takes the cake—Ignatius Geesh), anyway… I’m the one and only proud owner of the droopy mustachio who still manages to hold the undivided attention of the ladies of The Court, and they are plenty of nubile wonders this beautiful night. These lasses feed me all kinds of stinky cheeses, grapes, and grilled meats; while the Wine flows like the river Seine. Is that Constance Bonacieux?—I’d hit that, regardless of the consequences with D’Artagnan an indiscretion like that would bring upon me. She is fine as the best of wines.
Then I see her, she sees me. There’s a slow waltz—I can’t recall which one, we dance. Her long blond hair flowing to the rhythm of the string quartet. We kiss and it feels like I’m being kissed for the first time in my life. She tastes like the ripest of strawberries and smells of Patchouli.
Sir Lancelot shows up with his posse. That toothless Brit bastard trying to cramp my style. I whisked her away from the crowd, from the riff-raff, from the rapacious Brits; to the terrace I take her, where our only companions are the sound of crickets and a super moon.
Her name is Genevieve de Gasparin, and she tells me that she’s from the North; I tell her that I like the North as much—if not—more than the South, she smiles shyly, I give her a long wet kiss, then Sir Lancelot; that bangers and mash eating bastard found us. He waltzes in with Milady by his side, who seems to be enjoying the powder keg of a situation in which we find ourselves. Sir Lancelot produces his sword telling me that we have unfinished business. But as luck would have it, a gaggle of Genevieve’s nubile friends rush in saying that we should hit the dance floor.
They all left me there alone with that super moon; like a puppy without a home, eventually I follow the crowd inside. The lights are flickering like I’ve never seen them before, the bombastic sound of Sir Mix A-Lot’s ‘Baby Got Back’ flows from the ginormous speakers. Unbelievably all the dames in The Court begin to disrobe, to shake their collective booties, but then I wake up—Damn! I supposed I had that coming. Serves me right for going to bed right after eating a Three Musketeers Chocolate Bar.
Okay so, the preceding narrative was just me making shit up. My question is dear reader: Do you ever have lucid dreams? The type where smells, sounds and touch are as palpable as the screen before you? If so, do you remember them, can you recall them in vivid detail? If you can do those things I envy you, you should consider yourself lucky as for me, I’m just gonna turn this off and hit the hay, hopefully I’ll run into Genevieve de Gasparin, she sounds lovely don’t you think? No chocolat for me though.
I wonder, what I would dream about if, I was to eat a giant burrito? Or a live octopus a la Old Boy. How about a taco, a falafel, a baleada, a pupusa—oh great now I’m hungry.