This morning I had a short ‘Doper dream’. I dreamt my computer was open, and The Straight Dope was in the window. Mrs. L.A. got onto my computer (which she never does) and reported ‘Commander Dave died.’ That was the end of the dream.
Fortunately, in reality, there is no Doper named Commander Dave.
Heh… back in the days when I used to MUD a lot, I’d get occasional dreams that were nothing but big blocks of plot via scrolling text- complete with preferred text/background color and everything. Have yet to be graced with a forum-based dream, though.
I dreamt that I was decades younger and visiting a friend from college. He was having a party at his house because his parents were away and we (there were a few other guys from college there)
were drinking beer, playing poker, watching movies through a VCR and talking trash.
He was about to head out with the rest of the guys to another house & asked me to come along… but I said no. I said I couldn’t.
“Well, take something with you then, huh? Here are some Tubes albums… here’s a rare bootleg of John Lennon’s humor. Take Something…! Look, these wall are all going to get knocked down soon. Just take it… .”
I didn’t want to be a thief or a leech, so I apologized and left as they were all climbing into a van to go somewhere.
The dream kind of messed with me a little, because he was always like that & would give things away in a heartbeat. He’d give you the shirt off of his back & laugh doing it.
He died 18 months ago.
Maybe it was HAL 9000 talking.
I love the ones where you go from A to B plot-wise, but all the facts are wrong and nothing follows anything else coherently, such as:
I’m at the beach. Everybody I’m with decides to go to a party at the beach :rolleyes:. I get in my car to go to the beach party and have a flat tire, so I can’t go to the beach party. I call a local mechanic to come tow my car because I’ve never heard of changing a tire, obviously. The mechanic comes and tows my car even though the tire is still flat–his rig is one of the old ones; no flatbed, chains under the frame and lift it up (think Mater without the buck teeth). He tows the car and when I get to the service station–it’s half a block from the beach and I beat him there even though I’m walking–the car is fixed already and he charges me $80 for a new tire (installation and mounting, etc. is included). Sounds reasonable, so I reach into my wallet (in my swim trunks) for a C note (because EVERYBODY carries big cash to the beach) to pay him and see he has a double-sawbuck in his fist as change. “Not so fast,” he exclaims, “I still have to charge you $12 for the gas to get here from the beach [half a block].” “No, that’s part of the towing/repair cost and I’ve already paid you that [or, I will ASA I give him the Benjamin].” “Right, but I still have to keep $12 for gas.” “What’s the twenty in your hand for?” “To give you the change.” “I’m calling the cops, you crook.” “I’ll save you the dime. JOE?” Out comes the assistant grease monkey, who is the chief of police, moonlighting because the cops pay so badly. He is in full dress uniform, sleeves rolled up because he just changed my tire, wiping his hands on a dirty rag. The twelve bux is for him. CURTAIN [I woke up].
Wasn’t that a lovely story? 
(You should have seen the beach bunny hitting on me before the story started unrolling! :eek:)