My dreams are usually very boring, even to me. Some are so mundane, I can’t remember if I had a conversation with my husband or just dreamt it. That’s not to say that I am incapable of having dreams that would raise Freud’s eyebrows; there are some dark, twisted, one might even say fucked up, bits of weird burrowed in the recesses of my psyche. Some of my sleep-shows have even included famous guest appearances by luminaries such as Michael J. Fox, Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie, John Krasinksi, and Michelle Obama, to mention only a few (I wish I were joking). Most only show up once, although, according to my official biographer, F.M. Moraes, I’ve dreamt about John Krasinksi before, I just don’t remember it. Obviously it wasn’t worth remembering, much like everything I did yesterday.
I know the thought of having celebrities and dignitaries waltzing through ones dreams sounds glamorous, but it isn’t. They’re just ordinary imaginary figures like you and me. My first celebrity guest was Michael J. Fox. This was many years ago, when his show Family Ties was on the air, and I was an impressionable, lonely young girl. You can imagine the thrill and romance of being near Michael J. Fox! It was as if we’d known each other for years as we discussed the sad state of the California school system (totally true). I must have bored him as he hasn’t been back since. A more recent vision was more inspiring: I watched helplessly (I’m the same person asleep or awake) as Michelle Obama, surrounded by burning buildings, led a group of young children to safety (also totally true). In hindsight, I probably should have written about these encounters as they happened (as my memory is virtually useless)–add some photos and forged autographs and I could publish a nice coffee table book.
Unfortunately, there is one celebrity who has disturbed my sleep and wandered through the back roads of my mind, with whom I have an issue. Who the hell does Stephen Colbert, alter ego of some guy of the same name (different pronunciation), think he is? Swaggering into my dreams, trying to seduce me—perhaps the other way around. It doesn’t matter. Either way, I can say this with the authority of aroused personal experience: Stephen Colbert is an invader of dreams.
As a result of this stealthy infiltration into my vulnerable subconscious by a man of virile intelligence, armed with a laser wit that could have taken out Bin Laden ten years ago, and the dark, fathomless eyes of the Galadhrim, I must say I’m smitten. No. I’ll admit it. The truth is, in spite of his inexplicable alliance with the Catholic church, and rumors that his doppelgänger has a wife and three children, I would so do him. (Well, as long as no one was filming us and my husband wouldn’t divorce me.) For a self-proclaimed word-o-phile and amateur pedant, his wordplay is freaking foreplay! He might even appreciate some of my endearing attempts at twisting words into new, sexy playthings: “Elk and their ilk, never wear silk” or “I was taught naught but to tie a taut knot.”
Now, most of the time I’m not a fool or deluded and now is one of those times. I know exactly what would happen if I actually met Stephen (“May I call you Stephen?”)…. If I actually met Mr. Colbert, it would be magical. Meeting Tina Fey, for example, would not. She would say, “So you think you’re pretty funny huh? Tell me a joke.” Then, the only joke I can ever remember–a joke so offensive that I’ve only told it to three people whom I trust implicitly–THAT joke would pop into my head, causing the entire apparatus to come to a grinding halt. My brain would become one of those stupid fainting goats, and as I mentally play dead, Tina would sneer and say, “Take her away. She bores us.”
But it would be different with Stephen. I would be prepared! Obviously I’d need a new wardrobe, something that says, “Under this mannish, right-wing suit is something that would make Eliot Spitzer’s spitzer stand at attention.” I would also need new, longer hair: blonde and straight or brown and straight? I wish I had a gay friend to help with this… Oh, and I’d have my teeth whitened; veneered if I have time. I want a smile that’s ready for a sexy, head tossed back, I-live-life-to-the-fullest-and-I’m-up-for-anything burst of laughter. (I don’t want a grin that says, “We don’t hold with all that socialist dentistry bullshit.”) I’d also have to get a mani-pedi, waxing everywhere (even if it requires general anaesthesia), and a facial. Fortunately, Mr. Colbert doesn’t see race or color—no worries there! (Unless someone can be too white… what if I’m actually invisible?!) To seal the deal there would be a make-up squad, lighting specialists, and Spanx. We’re talking a lot of prep here, but Stephen deserves it.
After everything is in place (in and out of the Spanx), I would be introduced to the man with the sexiest brain on the planet (no offense to Stephen Hawking’s brain, but mine would shrivel up and die from the exertion of attempting to follow everything he knows about. Plus, I really like a guy who can make me laugh and the inevitable death of the universe is not amusing.) So there I’d be, looking as lovely as our technologically advanced beauty enhancers could manage, gazing into the eyes of a being who can, with the speed of a striking cobra, verbally eviscerate the unworthy. Stephen would take my hand, and say, “Tell me a joke.” At which point I would faint.
Maybe then he’ll stop toying with my emotions while I’m sleeping.
 In real life, Stephen Colbert pronounces his last name as it is spelled: cole-burt.