From: dac@prolix.apana.org.au (Andrew Clayton)
Newsgroups: alt.peeves
Subject: Dreams (was: Holiday peeve)
Date: Sun, 13 Sep 1992 01:46:53 GMT
Organization: More like Dis~, really.
X-Newsreader: Arn V1.00 beta rel2

In article <bfrrelly.716221989@unix2.tcd.ie>, Jerry Cornelius writes:

> Peeve2: The fact that she has just announced that she is taking a loan
> of 600 pounds for our holiday, 600 pounds for Chrissake...we are going
> to London for a week, not on a spaceflight!!!! And that is wityh free
> accomidation!!!!

You must have been really peeved when you wrote that, so peeved
that you lost your ability to type.

> Peeve4: I have not told my folks yet, and they are just going to shit 
> canaries when I do!

Hey, wow!  I just awoke from having a relatively strange dream,
that didn't have canaries in it, as such, but it did have a
budgie, a mouse, and a small yappy dog.  But more on that later.

How many readers were just retching into their keyboards at the
thought of someone who admits to waking up, and then almost the
instant they've dragged themselves out of bed, manages to peruse
alt.peeves?  I mean, lord, do I have a life or what!

Peeve:  Been thrown out of the 'computer room' at 11pm last
	night, after only reading news for 5 minutes, because a
	houseguest decided that she was tired, and wanted to go
	to bed - which hapens to be located in the computer room.

!Peeve: The three hour gastronomic extravaganza at the Rasa
	Sayang restaurant beforehand! (Wooley Street, Dickson,
	Australian Capital Territory, +61 6 249 7286)

Peeve:	The utter braindeath of Val's 17 yr old daughter, and her
	boyfriend, who came along, and made fooking eedjits of
	themselves in public. I mean, foodfights might be the wet
	dream of teenagers around the world, but I wish they
	would confine that sort of antisocial dreck to McDonalds ...

Anyhow, I had been trying since three in the afternoon to pick up
my newsfeed, and my site's the modem refused to talk to me.
Eventually I did a hack, after searching my archives for an
ancient email, which I dimly recalled had an alternative number
that a friend uses to access the same site.  Lo, I found the
number, used it, and got through to my site to pick up my news
bundles, and then it's time to go to the restaurant [see above].

After the restaurant, watching a bit of D Gen - The Late Show,
whilst sipping coffee, and gobbling down chocolate covered liquer
cherries, I get a chance to sneak off into the computer room to
unpack the news, hoping desperately to see articles about the
newly announced A4000 at the WOC show in Pasadena, and I'm almost
instantly greeted with the dulcit tones of my partner saying
'Dac, Dac' [yes, she really does call me 'Dac', you thoughtless
bastards], 'Fiona wants to go to bed now, so you'll have to leave
the room'.

Heck, Fiona only had to drive to Canberra from Sydney, spending
about four hours on the journey, arrive in Canberra at 10am, rush
around purchasing things for breakfast, then hiking off to
Commonwealth park to see the proto-floriade. Every fifteen
minutes before they went to Commonwealth park, my partner would
wander into the bedroom, shake me awake, and utter inanities like
'are you going to get up'. What else I said other than 'Ugh' is
irrelevant.  I didn't get up until 2.30 in the afternoon, whilst
they were off studying flowers.  Fiona and Val come home, just in
time for Fiona to hike off to aerobics [metapeeve:  Aerobics].
Later Fiona drove us all to the restaurant, where we had a very
nice meal, even if the teenager component of the group were
incompetant fuckheads, and after the meal, Fiona drove us home.

Then she expects to go to bed whilst *I* haven't had a decent
opportunity to read news.  How typically female.

But you sparked my memory with your line about excreting
canaries, which brings me to my dream:

Some friend who looks like David Bellamy [so I'll refer to him as
'Bellamy'] jumped into a large [1.5metre diameter] clear tank
that was half full of water, and had a large tortoise in it.
Then his belly proceeded to expand until it trapped the tortoise
against the side of the tank.  The tortoise was scrabbling
desperately to try and escape from between Bellamy's belly and
the side of the tank, clawing Bellamy's belly in the process.  My
friend couldn't get out, and after thrashing around wildly for a
few minutes, asked someone to smash the container, which they do,
and out flows the water, the tortoise and the [now shrunk to
normal size] Bellamy.  

I segue into this other setting, where Bellamy has changed into a
fat little white mouse, and has been caught on the floor of a
'lived in look' room, under a doll's house.

Suddenly Bellamy emerges from the dollhouse as a budgie! And a
small yapping dog that happens to appear in my dream, leap up
after it, and the stupid Bellamy/Budgie thrusts itself down the
dogs throat [stopping it from barking, and instead uttering
hacking noises], I grabbed the dog's jaws, and tried to make the
budgie come out, but it seemed to be stuck in the dog's throat. I
reached in and pulled it out [all disarrayed and soggy, ew!], and
the damned thing wasn't breathing.

The two halves of it's beak seemed to have joined together, and
pushed back into it's head, making a small circular 'oh'
expression of surprise.

Then I woke up.

Then I read your article. Pathetic really. 

Have a nice holiday in London. 

p.s. Micheal Moorcock sucks. [Does he still have anything to do
with Hawkwind?]

Dac
--
dac@prolix.apana.org.au              David Andrew Clayton.           // _| _  _
dac@prolix.sserve.cc.adfa.oz.au      Canberra, Australia           \X/ (_](_](_
munnari!labtam!eyrie!prolix!dac        I post .
"I'm not a pheasant plucker ..."             . . I am.           +61 6 290 2215