On Independence Day I fired up the charcoal grill after work and cooked a boatload of food. The grilling was made especially joyous by a couple cans of frothy adult beverage (Yuengling Ale).
Then I got bold and had a can of Guinness draught (with the delightful little widget inside that creates a lovely, creamy head. I love those clever Irish).
We had a lovely evening, but strange dreams were brewed from the melding of Guinness-n-brats. I can only remember one, and it was a doozey. My wife starred in a dream worthy of an episode of Criminal Minds. She was murdering random men who ticked her off. Apparently, they weren't listening to her when she talked to them. Whatever she said went in one ear, out the other. So she Ginsu’d them.
The story line in this dream troubled me. The chief complaint of all women is that their men don’t listen. Do they secretly ponder filleting us with after a failed conversation?
“Honey, look at these red shoes I just bought!”
(The sound of rustling sports pages, and an indecipherable mumble from the man of the house.)
“What do you think, honey?”
“I think the Dodgers suck this year.”
“I need the Chef’s knife from the kitchen.”
“Bring me a Guinness while you’re in there doing nothing.”
Twenty minutes later, the Coroner’s in the living room.
A conversation with my wife a couple days after the dream didn’t help.
“Honey, I dreamed you were a serial killer last night. You were killing men who didn’t listen to you. Slicing and dicing like Lizzie Borden on PCP.”
“Well, imagine that. It’s garbage night. Don’t forget.”
It’s at the curb. And I’ve hidden the block of knives, but the pumpkin carver is missing.