I can’t take it, this global celebration of American ridiculousness. Everything about it — the overdeveloped man-children “battling” on the gridiron, the “generals” on the sidelines receiving images from spies with a bird’s-eye view of the “trenches,” the pomp and circumstance, the all-too-serious “expert analysis,” the unapologetic commercialism and obedient consumption — is fucking cheap.

Fortunately, there are other options for your viewing pleasure.

There’s this video of lions eating a tourist in Angola in 1975, and this video of a shark chewing gently on Heather Boswell’s leg.

There’s also this clip of Glenn Gould talking about and singing to animals. 

If you’d rather not watch anything, you could always read a book.

Or you could help me figure out the meaning of a dream I had recently.

In the dream, I was looking out my kitchen window and into the dawn. While it wasn’t strange to see movement in the woods behind my house, it was strange to see an orange-and-black striped giraffe.

Curious, I grabbed my coffee, lit my morning American Spirit cigarette, and went outside, only to be surprised again.

The giraffe had turned into an orange-and-black striped horse.

Naturally, I walked across the lawn to introduce myself. When I got to the edge of the woods, I was surprised once more.

The horse had turned into a neatly dressed and well-groomed homeless family. The father was tall and seemed protective of his wife, daughter, and orange-and-black striped calf.

“Do you have any clothes you could spare?” he asked.

“Clothes?”

“We could use some extra clothes.”

“Extra clothes …”

“Right.”

“I don’t think I have anything that would fit you,” I said. “Certainly nothing for your wife or daughter … or calf.”

“I understand,” he said.

And with that they walked away, in single file with the orange-and-black striped calf in the lead.

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