I, Duckman

Cornfed Pig: It's the dream again, Duckman. You're letting it win. I know. I used to have a recurring dream. I'd dream I fell and hit my head on a fishbowl. Hurt myself just bad enough to work graveyard shift at a convenience store. A group of Hare Krishnas always came in at 4 AM and bought sixteen gallons of Mr. Slushie, and a package of banana flavored Ding Dongs. Then, the Swedish bikini team jumped out of a magazine and read Moby Dick to me inside a giant carton of cottage cheese. "Why?" I'd ask myself. What could it mean? Am I mad? Or is the world simply a mystery too complex to understand?