display | more...

I was at a high school reunion with my girlfriend (who only reappeared at the end). They had a gigantic video screen that took up a wall, showing the school (American) football team playing.

Some of the action came to life - there were two referees, who composed two thirds of a trio of referees who, like the gorgon sisters, shared an eye, passing it between them as needed. They were trying to set up the scrimmage markers (the two poles connected by a chain or strap) but they were doing it wrong, running them across the field rather than up the field. Also, they were driving the strap into the ground with stakes, driven through gromits.

I didn't at the time notice that they were doing it in the wrong direction. I did notice that they weren't actually ON a football field, and that staking down these markers seemed counterproductive. So I asked the head referee, a quasi-senile wrinkled old man, why they used stakes.

"Stakes are good for all sorts of things." For some reason I cannot remember (if I ever knew) he at this point took a spare stake and shoved it up my anus. I retreated to the nearest bathroom to remove the uncomfortable foreign object.

I entered at the same time as one of my classmates. When I complained to him about what had happened, he said that referee has been doing this sort of thing for years, and one quickly learned to stay away from him.

I removed the foul stake, and then became concerned that I might have sustained internal injury. So I went to a hospital.

For some reason, I knew what floor I had to get to, but I had a very hard time getting the elevators to go there. Floor 5... oops! For some reason, my button pressing didn't take priority over others' calling the elevator. Up to 9 (very fast), pick up a passenger, down to 1 (faster). Finally, floor 5, got out, found the receptionist.

And e said that I have to go to another hospital. SO I went to this other hospital, where I had to go to floor 3. I got to it easily. After I had been waiting a minute, they came up to me and told me I was fine. Relieved, I went back out.

I again had no trouble with the elevators. However, as I was in the revolving door, I realized that I had left my sweater in the office. So I pushed the revolving door to go backwards, and went back in.

Elevator trouble again! This time I was stuck going up to floor 12 (again, someone called the elevator). She was a doctor, and very sympathetic - it seems that this sort of problem happened to everyone. That was why they turned up the elevator speed so high. Well, we went down to floor 1. Finally, I pressed 3 and the elevator actually let me get there.

Kind of.

The hallway had changed (and I knew it had changed), so that it looked like the hallway of a public school under siege. Lots of wire cages on doors and windows, tile walls, vaguely poorly lit. I tentatively walked to the place equivalent to where the doctors had been. I found myself in a room still in the style of the school under siege, but it was really a breakfast bar (in the middle of a hospital, and decorated in the style of an under-siege public school), owned and managed by John Travolta.

Somewhat confused, I asked a waitress where my sweater was. She referred me to John, whom I had walked past. I described my problem to him, and he very graciously searched for my sweater himself. I sat down at the bar, and a redheaded waitress handed me a menu. I noticed that she was topless. So this was John Travolta's topless breakfast bar, in the middle of a hospital, and decorated in the style of an under-siege public school.

I noticed that the special was $2 for two sausages, three french toast sticks, and two eggs... but if you had two people in your party, you got double the food and it cost $7. I looked up at the waitress and noticed that she had gigantic (1 cm diameter) freckles all over the visible portion of her body (which was extensive). I glanced around at the other waitresses. Strange as it seemed, none of them had large breasts. I shrugged, and admitted that I wasn't here to buy anything. The waitress understood from my demeanor that I wasn't there to ogle either. She lost interest.

John came back with my sweater, and I thanked him. I left without further difficulty. Out in the car was my girlfriend, and I had the idea of suggesting that we take advantage of the excellent price on breakfast some time, but then I remembered that it would cost $7 instead of $4, and that she wouldn't approve of a topless restaurant, and lastly that $3.50 per person for breakfast isn't bad, but wasn't worth the other disadvantages.