More Dreamy Dreams

I'm reluctant to discuss the dream I had Friday night for two reasons. For one thing, it's very difficult to describe, very slippery, and two, it's embarrassingly shcmaltzy. But I'm going to to try, because the impression it left behind was so amazingly strong.

I'll finish with some beefcake muscle pussy, just to even things out,

So, the dream, or more specifically the waking up, since I have no idea what the dream itself was. Stay with me. When I woke up I understood I had been dreaming about R Man and it seemed like the whole thing had no story or visual impression or memory, just an immersion in R Man himself. I came to with a vivid sense of how sweet he always had been. Not that he was a girl scout or suffered fools gladly, but he always had a deep lovability and kindness that was never syrupy. And when I woke up, it seemed like I had been swimming in his very sweet nature. It had been all around me like light is on a bright day.

Crap. I absolutely am failing at this. There is just no way to explain what the sensation was. It was totally different from any dream I've ever had. Of course, trying to describe a dream never works, but still, even among dreams, this was unique to me. It was wonderful. I laid in bed wrapped up in the emotion of it, reveling in it. If there was one brief moment of my life I could relive, it would be that one. That's how profound it was.

Oh, never mind. I knew, planning this post, it would never work. It's like describing color to a blind man, frustrating to me and boring to the reader. Let's move on, shall we?

Ask the Cool Cookie, over at I’m a Filthy Fucker (and who am I to doubt his assertion?) posted this charming image earlier this week:

I was very impressed by it.

My encyclopedic memory of smarm is so vast I was actually able to remember that the original was this:

Both have their charms, but I am always impressed by artisans and whoever ran this through Photoshop so successfully deserves our wholehearted admiration, don't you think? Yes, the beard may be a trifle plush (although that's probably part of its appeal,) but the chest hairs would seem to have been placed individually, each one nudged into place by somebody as devoted to his art as a medieval monk illuminating a manuscript of the Gospel. I say right on, girl.