Inception

I had a dream last night that my big toe was very upset with me because he didn’t have a name.

“You mean like my penis’ name is Reginald Johnson?” I asked.

“No, Shit-for-brains,” he shot back, “like your fingers have names.  Thumb, pinky, index finger, the bird.  Get it?”

“Oh.”

Awkward silence.

“Well just so you know, I didn’t come up with those names.  They’ve been around long before I got here.”  I thought that would calm him some.

“Look, I didn’t bring it up because I wanted to hear a bunch of excuses from you –  And by the way, if you think I’m angry, you should hear Little Toe.  He’s fucking livid.  He knows about evolution; he knows he doesn’t have a whole lot of time left.” My toe was screaming at me now. “You have until sundown to give us names.  Got it?”

I nodded.

Name. 

Think. 

The Situation?

No.

T-Money?  Snooki?

No.  No.

Toe-ny?  Tic-Tac?

The sun burned across the sky.

Shit.

And that’s when I woke up.  Drenched in sweat, I pulled the sheet off my lower body, and my big toe was missing.  Fucking gone!  Immediately an image of it hopping along a set of train tracks, carrying a pole with a bandana tied to the end of it flashed in my head, and I screamed.

I screamed so loud that I woke myself up again, and my toe was back.  Phew.