The Tryptophan Parallel

I had another dream last night. Sasha Cohen and I were talking about how disappointed we were that she won the silver instead of the gold in figure skating. I said it was alright though, and that it wasn’t nearly as sad as the Russian girl not winning, because according to her “athlete profile” she has a really hard life and Sasha’s biggest problem seems to be having to decide which “Project Runway” designer’s leotard to wear. Sasha smiled, said I was right, did a triple lutz, and flew away on a unicorn. Things took a turn for the worse when Harrison Ford showed up, earring and all, and told me that They were after us. It seems Harrison and I had stumbled onto a software program that would simultaneously launch all of the nuclear weapons in the world. Harrison, crafty senior citizen that he is, stole the program and arranged for our departure out of the U.S. As we scurried through back-lot-style alleys we were met by John Malkovich wearing an eye patch and calling himself “Le Rouge.” I thought that, like in Johnny English, his French accent seemed strained, especially for someone who lives in France. Before I could voice my opinion, John grabbed Harrison and me and led us up a fire escape into one of those rooms in a run-down housing project that contains all of the latest computers and high-tech gadgetry. Once inside, Seth Green (my arch nemesis) and Jamie Kennedy (Seth’s arch nemesis) looked at us through their wraparound yellow shades and told us we were being tracked via satellite. Michael Clarke Duncan then emerged from the darkness and ripped out one of my teeth. It was too late. We could hear choppers circling overhead and the voice of Kevin Spacey (calling himself “The Mentalist”) telling us that there was no escape. Legions of gun-toting Navy Seals led by Michael Biehn descended down those cool ropes towards us and crashed through the window. Seth and Jamie screamed and then said something clever, and Malkovich spouted off a Russian proverb in Greek. Gun drawn, Biehn made his way towards me. Then, as he was about to pull the trigger…the damn baby from the apartment above mine started crying. Man, that kid and his whole f’ing family are so loud. I hate them. When I finally fell asleep again I was in the back of a limo covered in Malkovich’s blood, yelling “Whyyyy?!” Harrison said there would be time to grieve later, but now we had to head to an ancient volcano with the only fires hot enough to destroy the nuclear weapon software. It sounded like a good plan, so I grabbed my cloak and war hammer and prepared for the journey. Jesus Christ! Will you please stop crying! Where are your parents? Where are your goddamn parents? Now I’ll never get back to---I stood over Harrison’s American-flag-draped coffin. The president, who looked a lot like Tom Skerritt does when he doesn’t wear a mustache, wept openly. Le Rouge’s patch covered my left eye and the lock of hair the beautiful Belarusian spy had given me was clutched in my hand. My loss was great, but it had been worth it. The world was safe once again. I quickly jetted off to Tahiti for some much deserved R&R. Everything was going to be alright. If only I had seen Rutger Hauer lurking by the swim-up bar.

Claire Huxtable was right. I gotta lay off these late-night turkey sandwiches.