Dreamland is a very strange place when you read Street Carnage before going to sleep.
The first time I had a Street Carnage-induced vision, I had gone to bed after reading one of Lasse Homberg Josephsen’s posts. In my dream, I was trying to call Lasse, but the call kept going to voicemail. A few seconds later my phone was bombarded with message after message, all from Lasse. His contact photo was one of him holding a guitar by his face, throwing up the devil horns and sticking his tongue out like some coked-up KISS fan. The messages where all telling me “I can’t talk right now, faggot,” 17 different ways.
I’ve “met” Lasse on the Internet, but I don’t know him in real life. I’m not 100% sure how to pronounce his first name. We don’t even live on the same continent. Why would I be trying to call him? I’m sure Freud would have an elaborate explanation for this, but it would most likely be something about wanting to bang my mom and/or shove things in my ass, so I’ll spare myself the trouble.
As odd as that dream was, it doesn’t come close to the time I dreamed that I was Hitler. I’m not sure what triggered this one. Maybe it was this photo on another Street Carnage post by Lasse. Perhaps I had jumped from Street Carnage to this Taki’s Magazine article that Jim Goad wrote about Jews. Whatever it was, I had Berlin on the brain.
Dreams never start in any kind of order that makes sense. It seems like you always get dropped right in the middle. I was standing in a giant, very official-looking room. There was a skinny man with a measuring tape around his neck, nervously trying to cuff my pant leg. He asked me something in German, but I didn’t respond. Looking into a full-length mirror, I suddenly saw a somber, concerned-looking Hitler looking back at me. I was still half-dressed, wearing a wifebeater, and had a little paunch. My posture was absolutely terrible. Hitler needed to get to the gym more often.
I started feeling very uneasy when I noticed the giant red banners with swastikas on them hanging from the ceiling. It was clear from his actions that the servant putting my clothes on for me was absolutely terrified of Hitler. A guard paced nervously by the door, seemingly concerned about how long it was taking to get me ready. There was a lot of chatter on the other side of the door; A large crowd of people was waiting for Hitler to give a speech.
What was I going to do? I wasn’t the Führer, I had just quantum-leaped into his body. I found myself feeling really bad about the whole genocide thing. Had it already started? Wait. Could I stop it? I was about to change history!
Then I woke up.
The next time you’re reading Street Carnage at night, eat something really spicy, have a few bananas, and go right to sleep. Let me know what happens.
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