A strange death cult chants, "Slope! Nose! Hope!" repeatedly. Their high priestess whispers a secret. "The 90s," she explains, "were a Golden Age."
I'm in the bedroom of this git I knew years ago who made some money through questionable means. In my dream, he looks like Boris Karloff on a bad day, but I know it's him. I have minutes to steal his stash of filthy lucre from a secret compartment in the floor of his closet. If he catches me there, he will bash my brains out with a club.
I'm looking out from my old house at the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, who sit, gigantic, in the distance, on their gigantic apocalyptic horsies, waiting. They've been there, waiting, since 1917.
I'm a character in a sitcom that revolves around a 300-pound singer named "Roller Bill." Everywhere I go, people sing some song like:
"Who is he?
He's Roller Bill! Roller Bill! Roller Bill!
What's his name?
It's Roller Bill!
His name is Roller Bill!"
Then they stop. I'm thankful, but this repairman shows up and jovially explains that he has to fix the device that causes spontaneous songs to be scored, so that we can go back to singing "The Roller Bill Song" whenever we want.
I beg him not to. He smiles and heads about his business.
Roller Bill sings:
"I saw Robert Heinlein
Wearin' a big fat dress!
Wearin' a big fat dress! Wearin' a big fat dress
I saw Bobby Heinlein, he was wearin' a big fat dress
Wear-in'... A... Big... Fat... Dress!
The Horsemen are still waiting.