Tom Cruise invited Morgan Freeman over to talk about a project. Things kept happening while they talked. Accidents and catastrophes that Morgan Freeman eventually figured out Tom Cruise had prearranged. He also figured out that the project was merely an excuse to get him to come over, and that what Tom Cruise really wanted was for Morgan Freeman to be his friend. It was night and Morgan Freeman was wearing a colorful, striped terrycloth bathrobe, due to one of the catastrophes, and standing in front of the fountain at the Gloriette above Schönbrunn palace, when he said, “Tom, I’m not interested in being involved in your project, nor in any friendship with someone so manipulative.”
Then my alarm went off and I really had to pee.
I slept all night, interrupted only once when someone tapped me, twice, on the back. My wife seemed to be asleep. Have the cats learned to tap? I wondered. Or do we have freaky Mansonesque burglars? I couldn’t see anyone. Maybe they were hiding. But if we had burglars, the cats might be uneasy or something, and they seemed calm. But can cats tap like that? Like a wife waking you up in the middle of the night for some reason. Or a guy in a bar, before he picks a fight with you. Or a crazy burglar.
How odd, I thought. And decided to have a dream. And Tom Cruise wrecked it. I was showing Gamma a big, phat Vespa with a built-in television when Tom Cruise stole my dream and pissed off Morgan Freeman. Serves him right.