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31 mars 2006

Satire: Fruitcake Wishes and Sledge Hammer! Dreams

Walking around Sea World one day, I saw a woman in the worst getup ever. Black shirt, hot pink lycra/spandex capris, and black heels. I was suddenly struck with a horrifying clichéd '80s flashback. Ugh. Shudder. From there, I was transported instantly to a recurring dream I've had for almost twenty years.

You see, I have this nasty problem. Whenever I hear
Peter Gabriel, I'm sucked into this whirling vortex of every kind of terror involving David Rasche sex. Tell me you've seen those three words (David Rasche sex) together before. Please. Please?

Sledge!It's always the same scenario. I'm lying in bed. As I begin to drift off into a sweet sleep, I become aware of a presence in the room. My eyes open and I see David Rasche, naked, carrying his gun. He slides into bed next to me...
"put your mind at rest," he whispers. I sit bolt upright. He says, "you could have a steam train, if you'd just lay down your tracks. You could have an aeroplane flying, if you bring your blue sky back." I'm so tired that it sounds rather sweet, lyrical even. I can't really protest.

He sets the gun off to the side, leans in close to me, nuzzles up to my ear and says,
"you could have a big dipper going up and down, all around the bends. You could have a bumper car, bumping this amusement never ends."

My mind reels. Somehow, his movements are sensuous and the sound of him speaking is as smooth as can be. Thus, he becomes that big dipper, going up and down, and around my bends.

He continues to sing to me, in
Peter Gabriel's voice, "show me round your fruitcage, 'cos I will be your honey bee. Open up your fruitcage where the fruit is as sweet as can be." So I open up my fruitcage and let him go to work on the sweet nectar the little honey bee's craving.

I'm getting into the delicious sensations that he's dishing out. I've forgotten the '80s haircut and the silly tie he has on. Yeah. He was naked except for that tie.

Getting more and more turned on, I feel my excitement building.
"I've been feeding the rhythm - going to feel that power, build in you. Come on, come on, help me do...yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah. I've been feeding the rhythm I've been feeding the rhythm - it's what we're doing, doing all day and night..." he croons.

He moves away from my
"fruitcage" and stands beside the bed. I ask where he's going. He merely points to the door. I ask, "Will you be coming back? How will I be able to find you?" And he sings, "all you do is call me. I'll be anything you need."

"But, what do I call you?"
I ask."Sledge Hammer!" he replies. And he's gone.

I'm left with a quivering body, horny and aching for more. I am lost in a world of turquoise, neon pink, and lots of tall hair. I can still hear his words. I seek satisfaction, as he's left me hungering for more...
"oh won't you show for me and I will show for you. Show for me, I will show for you." Oh, I'll show him!

Twenty years of this, people. Anything that evokes a massive '80s flashback brings this all rushing back to me.

I want to be your sledgehammer
why don't you call my name oh let me be your sledgehammer this will be my testimony I want to be your sledgehammer why don't you call my name you'd better call the sledgehammer

There's no denying the terrible love/hate relationship I have with those memories. There are days when I pray for 42 episodes of sitcom fulfillment. I have been known to crave a ration of Rasche.

You know, my birthday is coming up soon. Maybe two seasons of some comedic cop video is in order.

My therapist really loves that new car of his.

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