You’re driving along a secluded roadway with your older brother’s girlfriend and you find yourself surrounded by magical red bricks, hovering around your vintage 1948 Eelmobile.
A plaid alligator materializes in the rear seat and a coon hound jumps out of your hat. A phantom image of Franklin Delano Roosevelt swallowing a large jalapeno appears behind you, follows for a while, but vanishes before you have time to take notice. The speaker under the perforated dashboard blasts The Ramones to the rearview mirror above.
Meanwhile, the lights at 53rd Street and Third Avenue have stuck on green, causing mass confusion to pedestrians and vehicles.
At 57.4 mph, you, your brother’s babe and your bitchin’ ride are transported over the intersection, ten stories up, easily clearing the parapet of the L. Foosers Paperclips Building while the magic bricks swarm like mad rectangular prism hornets.
That’s when I usually wake up.
Tacky Raccoons 