Spike came home for lunch today, and after we'd caught each other up on our respective workdays thus far (yes, we're that kind of couple), he randomly started telling me about a dream he had last night.
Apparently, in this dream (or nightmare; you decide), he was being chased by Janet Jackson. Who was a zombie. As is the norm in these sorts of dreams, Spike couldn't run quickly, but he did have a .45 caliber handgun. So, he checked to make sure the gun was loaded, checked to make sure the barrel was clear (can you tell he's an Army guy?), and then started firing. He could see the rounds hitting Zombie Janet--even going through her neck--but they had no effect in slowing her down. And then, I guess, Spike woke up. Which is a good thing, because who wants to dream about an undead singer masticating his or her still-living flesh?
Spike and I wondered: Why Janet Jackson? Why was she a zombie? Why didn't the bullets even slow her down? And how did the .45 get there in the first place?
The best answer we could come up with was that Spike was high on a cocktail of nighttime cough syrup, Sudafed, and zinc lozenges.
(Okay, this post really had no point, but I thought the story was amusing.)