Dream: Fester Bestertester to the rescue!
A couple of days ago I had what has to be one of the strangest dreams of all time.
I miss my last cat, PuggsleyOne Thorsson, something fierce. In this dream, I felt my grief so terribly I began praying to Bast, the Goddess of Cats, to bring me a cat and the wherewithal to take good care of that cat. Right in the middle of my prayers, however, some fundamentalist-type preachers roared up and began screaming at me, "You're whoring after heathan Gods!", interrupting the flow of the prayer and cutting off the Magick.
I was furious. I began calling on all the Greek Gods to come help me, but They didn't show. So I started calling on Every. Single. @!$%^&##!!?!. Entity. In. The. Cthulhu. Mythos. But none of them showed up to help.
Suddenly I had a brainstorm: remembering the glorious, halcyon days of MAD Magazine circa 1952-1992, a character of Don Martin, "MAD's maddest artist", came to me: Fester Bestertester. So I cried out: "Fester Bestertester! Help me!"
And lo! -- Fester Bestertester, hinged feet in run-over, floppy shoes that had definitely seen better days, stupid smiling expression, mismatched red-blue-and-white underpants and long-sleeved tunic, and weird posture suddenly appeared and chased off the now-terrified preachers, who, still screaming, but now in abject fear, did a one-eighty and ran the other way, disappearing into the distance amidst billowing clouds of dust, crud, and styrofoam peanuts. (Okay, I made up the bit about the styrofoam peanuts. It was actually popcorn. We have to be environmentally conscientious these days, you know.)
Problem: Fester Bestertester seemed just a tad too friendly. As he tried to give me a hug, I woke up, tired of being hit upon by, well, unsuitable types.
I miss my last cat, PuggsleyOne Thorsson, something fierce. In this dream, I felt my grief so terribly I began praying to Bast, the Goddess of Cats, to bring me a cat and the wherewithal to take good care of that cat. Right in the middle of my prayers, however, some fundamentalist-type preachers roared up and began screaming at me, "You're whoring after heathan Gods!", interrupting the flow of the prayer and cutting off the Magick.
I was furious. I began calling on all the Greek Gods to come help me, but They didn't show. So I started calling on Every. Single. @!$%^&##!!?!. Entity. In. The. Cthulhu. Mythos. But none of them showed up to help.
Suddenly I had a brainstorm: remembering the glorious, halcyon days of MAD Magazine circa 1952-1992, a character of Don Martin, "MAD's maddest artist", came to me: Fester Bestertester. So I cried out: "Fester Bestertester! Help me!"
And lo! -- Fester Bestertester, hinged feet in run-over, floppy shoes that had definitely seen better days, stupid smiling expression, mismatched red-blue-and-white underpants and long-sleeved tunic, and weird posture suddenly appeared and chased off the now-terrified preachers, who, still screaming, but now in abject fear, did a one-eighty and ran the other way, disappearing into the distance amidst billowing clouds of dust, crud, and styrofoam peanuts. (Okay, I made up the bit about the styrofoam peanuts. It was actually popcorn. We have to be environmentally conscientious these days, you know.)
Problem: Fester Bestertester seemed just a tad too friendly. As he tried to give me a hug, I woke up, tired of being hit upon by, well, unsuitable types.