It is not an uncommon thing that I should have strange and
vivid dreams, but last night’s dream was among the stranger ones I’ve had:
Don Draper (of AMC’s show Mad Men) and I were in southern California as a small and ill-fated invasion of the United States began. A couple of hundred poorly equipped soldiers crossed the Mexican border with WWII vintage carbine rifles. The response from the American military was swift, and soon there was an ugly battle. Draper and I found shelter in a hidden attic apartment.
But the ground forces were really a diversion. The real attack came when several thousand rockets were launched at the International Space Station. Their pink and orange smoke trails lingered long in the pale blue skies.
Don Draper (of AMC’s show Mad Men) and I were in southern California as a small and ill-fated invasion of the United States began. A couple of hundred poorly equipped soldiers crossed the Mexican border with WWII vintage carbine rifles. The response from the American military was swift, and soon there was an ugly battle. Draper and I found shelter in a hidden attic apartment.
But the ground forces were really a diversion. The real attack came when several thousand rockets were launched at the International Space Station. Their pink and orange smoke trails lingered long in the pale blue skies.
After the battle was over, Draper and I turned that hidden
attic apartment into an office where we began to sell an elaborately exaggerated
account of the brief war. “Facts don’t
matter. Only the story,” Draper told me.
“The sales, you mean,” I replied to him.
“Same difference.”
“The sales, you mean,” I replied to him.
“Same difference.”
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