Last night I had a dream that I was at a luxurious mansion dinner party. All of the attendees were conservative political and religious leaders. I recognized Senator Phil Gramm, Judge Rehnquist, Jesse Helms, Jerry Falwell and Newt Gingrich, among others.

We were all in a sitting room talking before dinner. I actually wasn't talking to anyone. I was just listening to everyone's snotty remarks to each other... and jacking off. Everyone tried to maintain decorum and pretend not to notice that I was sitting on the couch with my pants down to my knees, vigorously hammering away at my cock.

I would catch quick, covert, uncomfortable glances, but everyone tried to ignore me and stick to their thinly veiled etiquette-glazed derision of each other's policies and mistakes. Only one person acknowledged me. Sitting next to me on the couch in a silvery suit that made him look like a used car salesman or a Las Vegas lounge singer was Pat Robertson. He was in the middle of getting laughed at by Falwell, Helms and Cheney for making some idiotic blundering remark on a pundit show and humiliating himself. He looked depressed and embarassed and was scanning the room for something to distract himself. When he saw me jacking off, his eyes lit up a bit and in his squeaky deep-south drawl he asked, "Hey, son. Can I help you with that?"

With that, I pulled my pants up to a point where I could walk and made my way to the coat room, where I remembered seeing a beautiful girl in a short dress taking coats. I took her hand and led her into the coat room. As I shut the door, she exclaimed in her British accent, "The BALLS on that telescope!"

As soon as the lights went out and we started pulling clothes off, my alarm clock took me into the other world, where we don't always get exactly what we want.