Walls of Rambo Snarls

I awoke from a nightmare last night dreaming that I was trapped in a prison cell surrounded by the snarled lips of Sylvester Stallone. The snarls covered the walls. Every time I moved a muscle they would shoot back the quote from Rambo II:

“Murdoch…”

That’s all they said. “Muuurdoch…..” over and over. Afterward I could hear the sound of his fist squeezing a spit stained microphone from a VC prison camp. After a few hours, it became quite terrifying (or maybe I was just drunk?). Swirling sounds of snarled lip schizophrenia like a swarm of HGH drugged, mutant cricket moaning chants to their enemies followed by a slight record screech.

I convinced myself I was in a new hell. The hell of the Rambo Snarls (this could be a band name.). I was dreaming so I knew I could combat this omnipotent mandibular scourge with a creation of my imagination. So I thought of the first thing that came to me: a hot spatula covered in pancake grease (drunk + hungry = pancakes) and I began slapping Rambo Snarls in every direction. With each slap the snarls would dry up and I woke up with my fist covered in blood while punching my tuba into a flattened brass clump. Quite the nightmare I can assure you that.

I wonder where he gets it?

(That’s his Mom). RAUGH.