It was time for my bisexual annual checkup. The doctor looked me over.
"Any problems?" he asked.
"You mean physical or existential?"
The doctor stared.
"This morning I had a dream I was in a Ford Bronco with my mom and we ran out of gas. So we went into this office building and in one of the conference rooms was Kevin Trudeau."
"The Canadian prime minister?"
"Close. Anyway, he was waving his arms around in this rather comical fashion and my mom started crying. I made it out of there and found myself on a VW Bus stopped by the road with these lines of people. They were waiting to get into bars for Saint Patrick's Day."
"Uh-huh. Pull your pants down?"
The doc fiddled with my Marky Marks and Funkybunch. His fingers were cold.
"I was trying to write something very important down on a piece of plastic. Something The New Yorker would be sure to publish. And then..."
"Cough. Uh-huh. Again."
He snapped on the gloves.
"I came back to the VW Bus and some skinny black kid was sitting behind the wheel. I was really upset because all my writings were on that Bus. I asked him to get out, but he just smiled and started driving away. I ran after it. But then I was overwhelmed by the futility of it all. I mean, what's the point? Even if I caught that black guy who was tearing off in a backfiring VW Bus and I got my stuff published in The New Yorker, would it matter? Does anything matter?"
Up went the doctor's finger into my soft anus meat.
"Unnnnhhhhhh!" I said, sexily.
"Some dream," he said.
His finger plopped out. Then he started writing something down.
"So what do you think, doc?"
He tore off a script. "Here a prescription for Welbutrin. Take it twice daily."
Remember, kids: Always share your dreams, because you never know if you'll get some drugs for them!