The bum's Rush dept.

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. 
"What?"
 "You've damaged the magazine, sir! Is that your magazine? I should think not!" 
I picked up the mag, brushed it off. 
"It's OK." 
"It is not OK. There is visible staining on the cover!" 
"Jesus, relax." 
"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.