Last night I dreamt that I was playing billiards with Mark Twain.
"Was Tom Sawyer a metaphor for society's mistreatment of the young?"
"No, son -- it was a reason to get paid. I started writing it hungover and was drunk when I finished it." He blew smoke in my face as he said it.
"Was Huckleberry Finn the devil?"
His cue froze mid-stroke. I could tell it was not a good question.
"Son, those are some of the most ignorant questions I have ever heard. You must have had a really terrible American Literature teacher. Either that or you were dropped as a child. Now, are we here to play pool or talk? Because I have a date with Mae West in about an hour."
Please let me wake up, I thought to myself.
But, just then he sunk the 8-ball.
These dead celebrity pool tournaments were not going well. Maybe it was time to take Bing Crosby up on his invitation to play golf.