Scientific proof (among other things.)

I've started having strange dreams lately. I rarely dream because, as any good doctor will tell you, dreaming requires R.E.M. sleep. This is a state I rarely achieve since I get about 5 hours of sleep a night, at least on a good night. Of that 5 hours, it's broken up into segments of about an hour apiece since I wake up for no good reason about that often. It's good times, let me tell you.

Anyway, the dream I had last night involved me being late getting to the airport to board my plane. Of course, this stems from the fact that I'm flying up to Minnesota on Friday for the annual family golf tournament. This much of the dream analysis is clear. Turns out it's a charter flight, for some reason. What is that reason? Well, where things first get odd is when I realize that I'm supposed to be the pilot for this flight. (Editor's note: Maki does not know how to fly a plane. As if I needed to tell you that. In third person.) But hey, it's a dream and all, so I do what we normally do in dreams; choose the worst possible option. So I hop in the pilot's seat and check out the controls, figuring "hey, it can't be too hard, they do it all the time in the movies, right? Right? Right? Right...?"

So, who has chartered a flight and suicidally booked me as the pilot? I discover it's a WNBA player who has chartered the flight. At this point I realize it's a dream because there isn't a single WNBA player that more money than I do, (Editor's note: No, Maki doesn't make much money; not much money at all, sir) and I sure as hell know that I can't afford to charter a flight. But, being a dream I figure that my subconscious will reward me with one of those fictitious hot WNBA players, right?

Of course not. She's a beast, as is predictable for WNBA players. Such a beast that I wanted to pick up the fire extinguisher in the cabin, brandishing it as a weapon, lest the creature get too close to me. At that point I woke up in a cold sweat, my heart racing. So what does this prove? Two things: (A) that my subconscious is secretly plotting against me, denying me good luck and happiness even in my dreams and (B) that even on a subconscious level my mind recoils in horror at the thought of the WNBA. I'm sure Bill Simmons would be proud. And David Stern has already put a hit out on me. It's a shame, I tell ya.

Anyway, there you have it, scientific proof that the WNBA will never, ever work. And here I'm thinking an endless calvacade of high-excitement layups and missed bank shots would have been proof enough. Man, how wrong was I?