I had a strange dream last night.
This door-to-door salesman appeared on my front porch wearing a turban and a shalwar kameez. He was selling machine guns. He had one in his hands, and asked me if it was okay if he did a demonstration.
The last thing I wanted to do was to give this salesman the impression that I was scared. I would never make assumptions based solely on the fact that he was wearing a turban. Some of my best friends in Pakistan wear turbans and shalwar kameez. I didn't want to be accused of racial (or religious) profiling. I wanted to act just like I'd act if a Catholic or a Baptist was at my door, brandishing a gun for sale.
So I said, sure. Please commence with the demonstration.
He loaded the gun, pointed it at my house, and - swiveling back and forth - proceeded to riddle my house with bullets. As the kicker to the demonstration, he shot me in my leg.
"Do you see how the bullet lodged in your bone, instead of going through and through?"
I nodded, trying not to cry.
"It's amazing isn't it? And that's not even full strength! That bullet was diluted 10 to 1."
"Wow," I grunted, as I hobbled over for my checkbook.
"That's not all." The salesman then pulled out two hand grenades. "Check this out." He removed the pins out and through them over my roof and into my back yard.
We listened for a few moments.
"You're expecting a big boom, right? Am I right??" The salesman said, excited.
I nodded.
"Well that's the beauty of these babies. You never know when they're going to explode!"
"I'll take two," I said, although at this point it was more like a whimper.
The salesman pulled out a sticker and put it on the shoulder of my shirt. It read:
I am Politically Correct.
So, dear blog readers... what does it mean?
And I will say this: writers often complain of insomnia, but sometimes isn't it really a blessing?
