I’m not exactly a big fan of dream interpretations, mainly because our understanding of dreaming is so limited that any attempt to explain what goes on in our heads when we’re sleeping invites more questions than it answers. With that said, I’ve been having the following dream virtually every night for the past three years, and so if anyone could attempt to shed a little light on what they think it means, I’d appreciate if they dropped me a line.
It rarely happens in the same place twice, but Joe Pesci is always there, and it always ends with him viciously assaulting me. Sometimes De Niro is also present, but he never intervenes. At best, he stands by while smirking and dragging on a cigarette as my lungs collapse and my face is punched to custard.
One night in the dream I was eating at a McDonald’s restaurant when I found what looked like a pubic hair in my medium order of fries. After asking the frail Polish girl behind the counter for a refund, she declined, so I asked to speak with the manager. She implored me not to and strongly suggested that this was not a good idea, but I refused to budge, and so out came Joe Pesci in a short-sleeved white shirt and a wide black tie.
“There a problem here?” he asked me while pulling a comb through his olive-oil hair.
“Uh, yeah,” I stammered, the sight of him instantly rendering me with a feeling of impotence. “There’s a pube…a pubic hair, in my fries. I found a pubic hair.”
“Oh, OK.” his voice was alarmingly calm, and he peered into the carton before gently removing it from my grasp. “Don’t you worry about a thing, sir. I’ll go and get you a new order right away.”
I didn’t get a chance to insist on a refund, not that I would have. Pesci had already marched off and was out of sight. He was gone for about three minutes, and when he returned I was passing the time by eyeing up the light fixtures and drumming my fingers on the counter. As I turned to face him, I saw the vat of oil in his hand.
“OPEN WIDE, YOU MUDDA FUCKA!” he hurled the boiling liquid in my eyes, and as I sank to the floor while howling in agony, he gripped me by the collar of my T-shirt and began dropping his tiny fist in my face.
“FUCKIN’ … EVER … COME IN HERE … AND DISRESPECT MY ESTABLISHMENT AGAIN—” was all I could hear in between the cracking of my facial bones and the screaming of horrified onlookers. It then occured to me that Pesci had probably placed the pube there himself and made a habit of doing this kind of thing, as it gave him an excuse to beat up tall people.
Shortly afterward I woke up stuck to the sheets, my rod still partially turgid.
Like I said, the location varies, but the violence remains a constant. Some nights he’ll be cutting my hair in a traditional Italian barber shop, and when I point out that I didn’t ask for the “Tony Bennett,” he’ll plunge his scissors into my head while calling me a limey bastard. Other nights I’m the foreman at a candy factory, and when I inform him that he’s being transferred to the fudge-packing department he accuses me of calling him a faggot before slamming my head against a conveyor belt and cramming malted milk balls down my throat until I choke. Whatever the circumstances, he always beats the shit out of me, and I always wake up half-hard with a spent load staining my bedsheets.
So yeah, if anyone could offer some insights I’d appreciate if they sent me an email, if only to recommend a cheap therapist. I don’t have a lot of money, and I’m becoming increasingly concerned. My roommate says it’s nothing to worry about, but then again he’s a taxidermist, so his word on mental health is probably nothing to go by.