So I’m at Disney World, right? I don’t know why. Probably has something to do with jerking off to The Little Mermaid earlier in the night. Except what’s really been on my mind recently is the Seahawks’ draft. They’ve spent so much money locking up stars and getting free agents that this draft has to fill some serious needs. They’ve got practically no cap space at all.

Anyway, the point is I’m at Disney World, except it’s like, I don’t know, not exactly Disney World, you know? Like at one point I went to get a hamburger, and the inside of the restaurant was my 10th grade English class. Mrs. Stevens was there and everything. She was hot — not super-hot, but teacher-hot — and married to a crippled guy, so we all wondered if he was the kind of crippled guy who could have sex or not. We all wanted to bang her so bad.

I walk out of the restaurant/classroom, and BANG, there’s that stupid parade that they do every goddam day: plush Disney characters walking by, snot-nosed kids with sticky ice-cream faces agape, fucking Cinderella atop her little coach. Cinderella’s super-hot, by the way, so I have a quick little side-dream where I crush her ass.

And then there’s Shaun Alexander.

Shaun’s kinda like a grandfather with Alzheimer’s these days. You’ve got fond memories of him taking you fishing and teaching you how to tie your shoes, but now he’s nothing like those fond memories and you’re kinda just ready for him to die.

And so I was just thinking about my grandfather and wondering if he’s gonna get Alzheimer’s, when I hear the horn-blast of a semi and an 18-wheeler comes fucking OUT OF NOWHERE, mowing down screaming families and plowing into the back quarter-panel of Shaun’s convertible.

The sound of crunching metal is ear-splitting. The little Chrysler flies like a cue ball on the break down a full block of shitty stores selling mouse ears for 23 bucks a pop. Minnie’s lifeless body lies crumpled like a rag doll, and I can see blood starting to seep through the plush costume. Shaun’s nowhere to be seen, but I’m guessing that all I have to do is find a first-down marker, and he’ll be two yards shy of it.

I look down at my hands, and I’m holding a glass of 18-year-old Glenlivet and a freshly lit cigarette. So I take a long pull of the drink and a drag off the smoke, and think, “Ahhhhh, cap space before the draft.”

Then I woke up.