Dream Journal of the Damned

The Unnameable Dread
You’d Rather Not Have in Your Head
     That is not dead which can eternal lie.
     And with strange aeons, even death may die.”
     -Abdul Alhazred
     The Necronomicon
     “Are you threatening me?”
     Beavis and Butthead Do America

     We’ve all had a song stuck in our head from time to time. More often than not, it’s something we hate, something we’d have rather never heard at all, yet we’ve been overexposed. It may be some mindless disco tune, insipid cereal ad jingle, or a Christmas classic assaulting one with mind-numbing repetition. I can’t tell you the number of times my brain had gone on and on about “Walkin’ in a Winter Wonderland,” in the middle of a California Summer.

     What’s even more disturbing is the sneaking suspicion that some part of me must really enjoy whatever tune is stuck in my head. Even if that means I’m some sort of audio masochist, that doesn’t exactly soothe my fears. What if, deep down, I actually like KC and the Sunshine Band’s “Shake Your Booty?” What does that say about me? I shudder to think on it!

     Unfortunately, this phenomenon doesn’t stop with music.

     Beavis and Butthead was once kind of a guilty pleasure. I found elaborate ways to justify it. True, the titular characters were painfully stupid, but that doesn’t mean that the writing was unintelligent. The program was, in its way, a clever commentary on the stupidity in society.

     See? Fairly well rationalized, right? Don’t you see Beavis marching back and forth, crying, “I am Cornholio! I need T.P. for my bunghole,” in a whole new light?

     Not really. I just have to admit that the lowbrow toilet humor cracked me up.

     At any rate, these Mike Judge characters are apparently now lodged deep in my subconscious, joining the ranks of H. P. Lovecraft and Gary Larson.

     A hearty W.T.F. is in order.

     I’ll tell you W.T.F., shall I?

     We each dream several times a night, (or in my case, by day,) yet most of these visions are forgotten. Only a vague trace of the last dream before waking tends to linger in our conscious mind. 

     Yesterday, after just a precious few hours of rest, a metallic pounding disturbed my slumber. It sounded like someone banging on my security door. I snapped out of a dream, and stumbled unclad through the house to see what was the matter. If it was the Jehovah’s Witnesses again, perhaps I could scare them off for good.

     It turned out to be noise from the business across the street, whose delivery drivers are perpetually unmindful of the fact that they are visiting an otherwise residential neighborhood.

     Groggy and cranky, I shuffled back to bed, but it was too late. I was awake, stuck with the memory of a dream that would have been forgotten if I’d had just a couple more hours of much needed sleep.

     Beavis and Butthead were dead. Don’t ask me how. I imagine that they finally managed to accidentally do themselves in whilst trying to get high off fumes from their gas stove. Anyway, they were in line outside the pearly gates, waiting, I would guess, to be escorted off the premises by a security guard with wings and a halo. Looking for a laugh at the ultimate in homogenous gated communities, they commenced to graffiti tag the exterior walls. In black and red spray paint, they scrawled a series of arcane symbols, having no clue what they actually meant. They were merely duplicating graphics they’d seen on the cover of some heavy metal album. They knew these shapes by heart, as they’d drawn them a thousand times before on the lined paper that was supposed to bear their homework.

     It so happened that the artist who’d laid out the cover graphics for the aforementioned album had also been copying. His source material had been an ancient edition of The Necronomicon. This artist hadn’t really believed in the creeping horrors and elder gods described therein. He just knew that the band’s target audience would think that these symbols were wicked cool.

     As our two hapless antiheroes Beavis and Butthead painted these strange glyphs on Heaven’s walls, the geometry of the Kingdom began to slip out of true, defying the laws of space and time, physics and God. This light and fluffy and stringently exclusive after-world twisted in ways that should have been depicted by M. C. Escher or H. R. Giger, but were, in my mind, rendered in the simple comic style of Gary Larson.

     In short, this entire dream consisted of a single panel cartoon, done in the style of The Far Side: Beavis and Butthead tagging the walls of Heaven, warping them into the very image of The Nameless City. The caption bore the chuckling of Butthead, “Huh huh! Cool!” If there had been a second panel, I imagined it would have depicted Cthulhu waking in this new home away from home, and breaking his fast on the souls of the dearly departed, catching them in his many tentacles.

     I’ve certainly had more nightmarish dreams. I mean, at least this time I wasn’t being swarmed by zombies, or stalked by sharks, or living back in my mom’s house. Likewise, as crossover fan-fiction goes, it could have been worse. I mean, at least Cthulhu’s many tentacles didn’t inappropriately probe Butthead and “Cornholio.” (I know, most of you are horrified by that image, while an odd few are spanking it furiously. I apologize, and say “You’re welcome,” respectively.)

     Either way, just try to get that image out of your head. Just try

     Shake, shake, shake… shake, shake, shake… shake your booty.


Nick Roberts © 2009   

Giant Green Squid PhotoShopped by Master Nick

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