FIRST OF ALL, IF YOU ARE HERE TO READ YOUR CHILD A STORY, YOU ARE IN THE WRONG PLACE! SORRY — THIS TALE IS NOT SAFE FOR CHILDREN. THAT’S OKAY. EASY MISTAKE. JUST EASE OUT OF HERE AND GO FIND A RATED “G” STORY. SORRY FOR THE CONFUSION AND THANKS FOR STOPPING BY!
Aren’t y’all lucky. I just got my computer back yesterday and I had a dream last night that I can share with you now. (If you are interested in what happened to my computer, you can read about that by clicking on here.) All I’m saying is that this is what eating salad, drinking club soda and lime and going to bed at a decent hour will get you when you’re sleeping. Also, I guess I did get to see up David’s nose in the ENT’s office yesterday. They scoped him, so I’m not going to rule that out as part of why this dream went in the direction it went in.
I’m on the Orville, flying deep into space.
Pan in on Bortus and Bortus’s mate Klyden.
They are dancing some strange, mating ritual type of dance. Or perhaps they’ve been drinking and are just happy.
Or maybe I’ve been drinking. Or maybe I need a drink. Anyway, the couple appears happy. (Okay, I couldn’t find a gif of them dancing. So this was about as close as I could find. You’re welcome!)
The most visually striking thing about this scene besides seeing Bortus give Klyden a “come hither” look is to see Klyden’s nipples which are strangely elongated and perky — like gravity-defying perky. Nope. Can’t unsee that! Think whipped cream with stiff peaks kind of elongated and perky. How in the hell does that happen?
Anyway, eventually, they go into their bedroom and shut the door! Whew! Thank God!
Before long, we hear muffled lovemaking noises. Okay. Stop. No one wants to hear that. Pan away from their door, puhleeze!
So why am I here? First of all, I am not alone. My cohort (a nameless male) and I have been given our orders. We are spirits and our job is to get inside Bortus so that he can have a viable pregnancy.
Aw, Bortus and Klyden are trying to conceive!
It is our mission to fly inside him and become one with the egg at the time of conception. We have two chances and the egg will either end up being male or female all depending on who actually wins this fly-by battle. If we both fail, the pregnancy will not take. If we both succeed, the pregnancy will result in twins.
So my co-hort and I are like the yin and yang of flying spirit-sperm; Tinker Bell kamikazes spreading living spirit dust.
So now we’re off and flying haphazardly toward Bortus. I turn on my automatic flying gear because I’ve closed my eyes and…I’M NOT LOOKING! I’M NOT LOOKING!
Wow! That was some kind of flight. My cohort and I are safely inside Bortus’s…uhm. His, uhm…
Never mind. We are safely inside Bortus trying to figure out which way we are supposed to go. We come across a guard who looks eerily similar to The Dreadful Flying Glove from the Beatles’ Yellow Submarine — only he isn’t blue, he’s brown.
As we approach, the glove/hand-like guard says, “Halt!” Because what else is he going to say, right? Once we explain what we’re doing there, he looks toward another creature living inside Bortus, who looks similar to the H.R. Puffenstuff trees
and says, “What are we supposed to do, now?”
Fade to black.
Pan in for a close-up of Bortus and Klyden sleeping peacefully in bed.
They are rudely awakened with a TV camera at their bedside and an obnoxious spokesperson declaring to the world that their lovemaking was a success and that they are pregnant! Yay!
Julie Bowen (Claire from Modern Family) is laying on the opposite side of Klyden (fully dressed, I might add) and is expressing how excited she is for them.
So, that was my dream. This is what clean living will get ya, huh? I guess the most interesting thing is that over the last three days, I’ve actually had dreams that I remember when I wake up; although this has got to be the most “out there” dream — however, being on the Orville, what else could it be? Anyway, remembering my dreams hasn’t happened in awhile.
At this point, I know y’all are just itching to interpret this one. I can hardly wait.
I will now turn the control over to y’all and let the armchair Freudians among you have your say!