Bingo in Smoking

And we’re back! After a moderately long hiatus, Bingo in Smoking is back in action, righting the world’s wrongs and bringing justice to those who care to be justified. Yes, if you need validation or even if you’re a block of text and you need to be spread evenly between left and right margins, I’m your individual.

And now. Back to our regularly (if you can stretch your imagination far enough to call it that) scheduled programming. But first! A story problem:

If person “A” gets 4 hours of sleep per night without exception for 3 weeks despite the distinct nonexistence of person “B” (who could be any of the following or anything equally disruptive: a very motivated but decidedly abhorrent accordeon player living inside one’s mattress, a person who juggles houses, Fran Drescher, etc.), does person “A” automatically become a member of the undead, or is there an application process?

I don’t know about you, but I, for one, am getting the worst sleep of my life. This may be due to the fact that I am no longer spoiled by the magic and wonder that is Sealy Posturepedic®, or perhaps it is because I am now sleeping on a mattress that was fashioned by Paleolithic Hunter-Gatherers®. Whatever the case, my quality of rest categorically Blows®.

Not sleeping well has its distinct advantages, though I am too tired to remember any of them. However, I am remembering my dreams with an accuracy that is usually reserved for pi decimal placements.

(Tangent: There is a wonderful band called The Andy Ober Orchestra who I once saw perform a parody of ‘NSYNC’s “Bye Bye Bye” called “Pi Pi Pi” in which they encourage the crowd to sing along as they recite pi to 60 places. They also did a Bud Light “Real Men of Genius” commercial parody about Mario Van Peebles. You MUST support this band.)

Of course, using the word accuracy in reference to dreams is a paradox of sorts. There is nothing accurate about, one minute, drifting to sleep and, the next, helping the brother of your high school valedictorian move into his dorm room along with one of the sons of your former babysitter. Or introducing someone to large groups of long-forgotten people as “Jake” when his name in real life is Rob.

These things make sense in dreams. Of COURSE you, your best friend, Aubree, and your sister, Alaina, are racing around a castle with bugged phones trying to find a way out before the air supply runs out. What ELSE would you be doing? Fretting because your “pet pidgeons” (also nonexistent) were released via the window of “your room” (a room you’ve never seen before) by an evil blonde girl named “Kelly” (conjured from eating cheese too close to bedtime)?

This insight into my subconscious admittedly makes little sense, particularly as I am not generally of the mindset to make sense of anything including my own motor functions. Which works out. Word on the street I’m a hot candidate for the undead.

TRICKS AND TREATS:
Real Men of Genius – Mr. Jean Shorts Inventor
The Andy Ober Orchestra – Pi Pi Pi