My Favorite Axe-cident

Last night, I dreamt I was in some wishy-washy club in Greenwich Village, listening
to four Beegee look-a-likes playing Beatles songs, flipping their hair
and waiting for the beat to sink into the warm room. There was Capote, rolling
his tongue around his teeth, his skin a rotting greenish color, and he was
sitting with a sunken-faced Marilyn, her mouth half-blood and half-cigarette.
I was too nervous to talk to them, but as soon as I tried to leave, Brando
caught my arm and pulled me behind the bar, looking like he was about to puke
all over the dusty bottles of gin balancing over our heads. He said not to go
outside because there was a swarm of Bogey zombies walking around the parking lot.
I ordered straight grenadine and waited for the end of “Revolution” to try
and walk out the back, only to see Ol’ Blue Eyes chopping oak to throw into the furnace.
I lit up my cigar too close to his face, and the next thing I saw was my severed
neck spewing out fresh tobacco smoke. I don’t believe in heaven, but I definitely remember
someone lifting me up hard into a giant white space where my angel, a young
and clean-shaven Rick Moranis, was juggling thousands of rainbow beanbags while standing on one foot. I looked and smiled for the first time all night, until he started throwing each of the bags directly at my face, like I was just another kid to shrink. I tried to talk to him, but he
just kept laughing and wiggling his ears like he couldn’t hear me. I finally woke up
and figured that’s what I get for watching My Blue Heaven before falling asleep every night.