I dreamed that Rush Limbaugh was yelling at me. The setting was a Florida seaside resort, maybe The Breakers. Bright sunny day. I was sitting at a beach chair by the pool; Rush was in the chair next to me. There was a magazine rack. I pulled out some brain-cracking thing like Forbes or The Economist, perused it, then put it back. In the process, I inadvertently brushed the magazine against the condensation of a lemonade glass sitting on the table between us.
"You're going to
have to pay for that," he shouted.
"You've damaged the magazine,
sir! Is that your magazine? I should think not!"
I picked up the mag,
brushed it off.
"It is not OK. There is visible staining on
"I shall talk to management!"
"Look, this is
ridi -- I'll talk to management."
"See? This is typical liberal evasion
of personal responsibility! You, sir are -- "
"Listen," I said "I'll --"
And, at that point, I woke up.