I came home late from a meeting at church and, once the kids were tucked away in bed, I fixed a plate of toritilla chips and some queso dip and sat down to watch that dreadful national championship game. At some point I fell asleep on the couch and had the wierdest dream. No drugs or alcohol were consumed in the making of this post. I swear.
I was so bored watching Alabama abusing that Pop Warner team from Indiana that I fired up the iPad and surfed The Gun Wire at one point. I stumbled across a video interview with Massad Ayoob and read a few other posts.
At some point I zonked out and dreamed that my son and I were on a road trip in a beat up station wagon, a la the Griswold family from National Lampoon's Vacation. Massad Ayoob was driving and Gail Peppin was riding shotgun. We were going to some sort of gun show, I think. Maybe it was Shot Show, I dunno. Anyway, we had apparently taken a wrong turn at Albuquerque and stumbled upon Comic Con or a Bronie convention. The place was wall to wall adolescent nerds. Don't ask. I have no idea where that one came from.
At some point, the apocalypse hits. The convention center explodes and collapses in on itself. Think the CDC in the final episode of Walking Dead, Season one. We all end up running for our lives, fighting our way through hordes of the undead, rendered in green-screen monochrome. We hacked and slashed our way through two-dimensional zombies, with the artistic styling of The Regular Show. Despite having perhaps the world's most reknowned self-defense writer and instructor with us, we went hand-to-hand. Wierd.
Anybody want to take a stab interpreting that?