DREAMING OF DISNEY.

I had the most vivid dreams during my week-long stay at Disney World. Every single night, shortly after one of the animatronic third-world housecleaning staff tucked me into bed, the dreams would rattle their way through my subconscious, like a toxic, miasmic Mickey Mouse Express. Here is one of my more curious dreams, as best as I can remember it:

I am eating at Disney's most in-demand restaurant, The Impacted Colon, and I am flummoxed by the dizzying wealth of choices on the menu. I consult with Freddie Prinze, Jr., who appears in my dream as a waiter. (And will likely be appearing elsewhere as a waiter very soon, I think. Me-yow!):

ME: Which would you recommend - the entrée-sized portion of Jalapeno Poppers, or the Pan-Seared Cowboy Hat?

FPJ: Oh dear me. They're both wonderful. If you like Jalapenos, you can't go wrong with the Poppers at any price. But if you're more in the mood for felt and black pepper, by all means - giddyup!

ME: That doesn't help me at all.

FPJ: We also have a huge sock filled with potato sticks that's incredible. Just like everything else.

ME: I didn't even see that on the menu.

(at this point a white horse gallops through the restaurant and out of sight)

FPJ: (waving his hand over the menu nonspecifically) Oh yes, it's right there: Rabbit Coq Au Vin. That's wonderful, too.

ME: What? What's wonderful? Didn't you just --

FPJ: Throat cancer. Throat cancer is wonderful. I can't stop talking about it. It's one of our most popular cancers. Do you need another glass of Pepsi One?

ME: But I just -- (I look down and realize I've actually just drunk an entire 3-gallon tankard of soft drink and, staring into the depleted vessel, I see a small sign at the bottom. The sign has a small picture of one of Donald Duck's nephews - I think it's Huey - with a dialogue balloon above his head that reads, "You just drank my pee!")

FPJ: You look sad. Why don't I bring you a copy of 'Don't Sweat the Small Stuff.' It's an excellent book and a can-do appetizer!

ME: Really? How about the Self-Inflicted Lamb Skewers?

FPJ: Dynamite.

ME: (no longer reading off the menu) A scorpion in your boot?

FPJ: Abbondonza!

ME: The new David Alan Grier television show?

FPJ: Out of this world. One of my favorites.

ME: Ethnic Cleansing?

FPJ: Perfect, if you're in the mood for something south of the border!

ME: How about this? ( I look around for a steak knife and, not finding one, shove a salad fork into my own thigh.)

FPJ: Sunday, Monday, Happy Days!

(I throw my tankard across the room, where it hits a drunk pirate. Then I cover my face and, when I remove my hands, I see that I'm looking down at a young Freddie Prinze, Sr., who is seated where I was. I am wearing a waiter's uniform, and have apparently assumed the identity of my waiter.)

ME: I'd like a demitasse filled with .357 magnum bullets.

FPJ: Looking Good!