Tom Cruise is a Dream Liar

Tom Cruise is a dream liar.

I don’t remember where or when exactly the dream began and I don’t know where exactly I was… you know how dreams go, they flow in an out of plot lines and they jump from places you’ve been to places that have never existed in time.  Suffice it to stay the dream started before the portion I am relaying to you and takes place somewhere I’ve never been.

And Tom Cruise was flirting pretty heavily with me.  

Tom is not really my type, being that he’s not a vaginated person, but I admit I was flattered.  He was trying to persuade me to do a stunt with him that involved me hanging on to the side of a building and him pulling me up to safety.  He assured me that he had done the stunt countless times and that I would enjoy the rush of adrenalin from it.  He kept putting his hand on my shoulder and looking into my eyes.  I thought he was going to lean in for a kiss.  I can’t remember if I wanted him to.  The hetero-awake me says that I absolutely did not want this.  But the dream me plays loosey-goosey with gender roles and I really think that me was being wooed by Mr. Cruise.  I called him Tom in the dream.  Tom asked me to.  That was part of the dream I left out.  By this point we were already close.

So the deal was this.  I would hang onto the side of a fake building.  Tom would hold out his hand for me to grab and I would.  Then he would use his superior upper body strength to pull me over the ledge and into his arms.

He was very reassuring.  He kept saying things like, “I’ll be there for you,” and “You’ll be perfectly safe,” and “Nothing can go wrong,” and “I won’t let anything bad happen to you.”  I got the feeling he was starting to care for me as much as I did for him.  He was really winning me over.

I was hooked.  What did I have to lose?  Tom had it all under control.  So I jumped on the ledge and immediately everything was awful.

The instant I made contact with the wall a close, personal friend of Tom’s walked up and began talking with him.  Tom hugged him and they laughed and patted each other on the shoulders.  Who was this guy?  Those were my shoulder pats!  This bozo was stealing my dream Tom.  Meanwhile I was losing my grip.

It turns out hanging onto a ledge is a very difficult thing to do.  I don’t know how good I am at it in reality, but in the dream world I suck.  I called to Tom and he held out the “just-a-minute-finger” that parents give to kids when the adults are talking.  I slipped a little.

So I looked down at the ground, which had up until seconds ago been a story or two away, and it was like 9 stories below.  I freak out and called to Tom again.  He wagged the just-a-minute-finger in case I didn’t see it before.  Then he and his home-wrecker buddy laughed again.  What a piece of shit that guy was.  Not Tom.  At that moment Tom was still my would-be savior.  I hadn’t lost hope just yet.  But I had just about lost my grip.

I slipped a little more.  I was now bound to the ledge – and to my life – by only the tips of my 8 fingers.  Things looked bad.  

“Tom!” I called.  He apparently was done with his affair because as I was losing my grip his hand appeared from over the ledge and grabbed mine.  But his grip was poor and nothing more than fingers grabbing fingers; his wait-just-a-minute fingers and my too-late-I’m-falling-fingers.  And those fingers didn’t agree on whether I was safe or doomed.

I looked into Tom’s heroic eyes, but they did not gleam as they had earlier.  Their confidence was clouded by doom; by worry.  He knew his grip was not true.  

And I slipped.

And I fell to my death.

Actually, I didn’t.  I’ve never died in a dream.  I don’t believe that really happens.  I’ve nearly died in many dreams, but things always happen to save me.  If I’m underwater and running out of breath, I suddenly remember that I’ve always been able to breathe under water.  If I’m falling, I suddenly remember I can fly or float.  If I’m being shot or stabbed, I suddenly remember that I’m not in a dream with guns or knives.  And if the reality altering machine is broken, I just wake up.

In this dream the reality altering machine worked.  Tom and I lost our grip on each other and I plummeted.  I looked into his horrified eyes and I dropped to my certain doom.  But after two or three stories my descent slowed considerably.  I was still falling, just not very quickly.  Instead of dropping to my doom Tom had to watch in horror as I dropped 9 stories to my broken ankles.

Then I woke up.

Tom Cruise is a dream liar.

I’ve been to sleep like four times since that dream and he hasn’t shown up to apologize.

Letter 12

So I went out and purchased some more pens. Then I dutifully left them at home sitting on my kitchen counter where they will do absolutely no good to me. Chances are very good that one of my cats will thing the package is a toy and he will bat it off the counter. Then it will get batted around the slick floor until it slips under the refrigerator or the oven, and I'll never see it again.

Incidentally, at the bottom of this letter I did not have a piece of clip art. I drew a horrible little picture of the Fellowship of the Ring, minus Boromir and the nonessential hobbits. They were each listed according to his hight. I had Gandalf, Aragorn, a dollar sign, Legolas, Gimli, Frodo, my son, and finally Tom Cruise, who is saying, "Scientology Rules!"

In case you don't know this already, scientology doesn't rule.


LETTER 12:

Dear [adult swim],

I don't think it's fair that stilts have fallen out of fashion in business. Once upon a time a short man could don his stilts to gain an edge. He could throw a poster over his shoulder and hit the streets for a day of successful advertising on stilts. Or, if he wanted to appear imposing in a conference, he need only strap on his leg extensions, and make sure his pants were long enough to conceal his secret.

Now stilt wearers are quickly identified and ostracized. If you are found to be wearing stilts you are told to remove them or leave. As a man who is short by today's standards, 5'7", I wanted to know why the stilt was so frowned upon in business.

It bears mentioning, first of all, that most movers and shakers in business are tall. Sure Napoleon and Tom Cruise are both short, 5'1" and 4'7" respectively, but they were world leaders, not business leaders. It takes a certain maniacal fervor to lead the world; a rabid intensity that many tall folk don't have. But business isn't that way. There are no special qualifications in business, except it would seem, being tall. And in these troubled times stilts cannot make the difference.

I went to the bank yesterday to get a loan for my business. Naturally, I was wearing my three foot stilts. Somehow the security guard sensed that I had them on and he made me remove them. Then I was denied my loan because I had "atrocious credit and a horrible business plan," which is really just code for: you are short. After I left, Donald Trump, who is really quite tall, entered the bank and was given a hundred million dollar loan for a business venture that could not have been any different from mine.

The proof is irrefutable. The only thing we can do to stop this discrimination is to make stilts popular again. That or make being tall a crime. Either one will suffice as far as I'm concerned.

signed

Ps. I know that Napoleon and Tom Cruise are dead, but I couldn't think of any current world leaders of significance.

Pps. A good short writer could help [adult swim] take over the world.