The Life and Adventures of Randy Mesmer

DREAMS.

Occasionally, for very short periods, Randy Mesmer managed, actually, to be good. If you saw him during these times, you’d notice that he even looked surprised, like Wile E Coyote when he runs off a cliff and you can see him thinking, “What’s holding me up?”

He thinks that—and at once plummets a mile down into a tiny puff of smoke.

Randy Mesmer wished to think highly of himself during these brief periods of virtue, but unfortunately his dreams were a non-stop porno saturnalia, a hard-core sex channel with fast-forwarding capacity. The men in dreams, it seems, were clearer than real-life: every hair visible and every fine line of the Virgin of Guadalupe tattooed in blue on the backs of the uncut horsedicked Latino brute of his dreams and he’s crouched on the clammy tiled floor with some lug’s nutsack banging against his cheek while he shoves a bottle of amyl up against one nostril.

Jeez. Couldn’t my dreams at least skip the poppers? He muttered to himself, as he woke hearing the 4am bell at the monastery and opened his eyes to see the monsoon rains flowing down the crumbling wall inside his meditation hut.

Tucking his boner into pants, he pulled a shawl around him and sat down in half-lotus to complain to each of the 35 Purificatory Buddhas that he could really be a very holy person if not for world and, specifically, men.