I know dreaming about depositions gone afoul is nothing new for any of us, but had a particularly vivid one last night that I've just gotta share:

As I was setting up, I pulled out my new Mira writer, which inexplicably was hot pink, kind of like it had been painted with a pearlescent nail polish. Now, I'm as secure as the next guy, but I must admit that saddling up behind what looked like a prop from the Anna Nicole Show was quite unnerving. Phase two of the nightmare came when I reached into my "Bag of Tricks," my real-life zipper pouch containing every adapter known to RadioShack, and couldn't find two plugs that would mate up. Then I realized that, instead of donuts or kolaches, I decided to bring a nice cabernet for the attorneys to snack on at this early morning depo. Flustered by my inability to hook up my fabulous looking equipment, I tear into the bottle.

Now the witness shows up, an oriental woman who muttered under her breath much like Milton from Office Space, only in pigeon English. At this point I'm fully in the throes of that dreadful feeling we've all had, "Man, this is gonna be a bad day." Then counsel began to arrive, stating their appearances to the effect of, "Yeah, I represent Avery. I forget his last name." Concurrent with the alarm jolting me back to reality, I was ranting in an inebriated stupor about mumbling foreigners while barking at the lawyers, "Yeah, well, I beth you know your clienth's lasth name when you thend them your bill!"

I need a vacation.

"Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar" -- Sigmund Freud