and she said.. "how you interpret the dream is probably more important than the dream itself"

A man who had gone into a diabetic coma on a bus in Leeds was shot twice with a Taser gun by police who feared he may have been a security threat..

Mr Gaubert said he was on his way to meet friends when he suffered a hypoglycaemic fit on the bus which left him slumped on his seat clutching his rucksack.

Armed police were called to the bus depot in Headingley and when he failed to respond to their challenges he was shot with the Taser.

He said as this was happening, another officer was pointing a real gun at his head.

He was restrained and eventually came round in the police van.

He said it was only then that the officers realised it was a medical emergency, despite him wearing a medical tag round his neck to warn of his condition, and took him to hospital.

In the quiet of darkness at night as I stare blankly at the inorganic glow of minerals and metals sloshed together *poof* - magic - greeting me in square unnatural patterns, images pixelated and glaring, with the slow hum of a tired hard drive platter spinning at 5400 revolutions per minute and the easy throb of tendinitis putting me to sleep, I sometimes pause (midpassword) during entry of yet another "login" on yet another "account" on yet another "page" during yet another "surfing" sessions. All of these words and concepts unavailable to us such a short time ago and now, like ice cream and coca-cola, budweiser and sno-cones, they're all part and parcel of our tiny existence here in the little bed & breakfast we call earth.

But what I probably spend more time thinking about is the sheer hilarity, the knock-down-piss-fight sickness, the mind-blowingly huge-normous anaconda of a bitch ass snake that is, proverbially, in our mother fucking hizouse of a plane. A snake called What The Fuck that is the sort of ugly fucker that you wouldn't bring home to your mother, you wouldn't invite out on a date, and you wouldn't even tell your friends if you picked them up at a bar, but it is there and it is everywhere and none of it really makes any sense whatsoever.

Case in point. This year, we've heard plenty of talk about the new Airbus 380, an airliner capable of carrying 853 passengers from New York to Hong Kong on a single tank of gas. Try that in your Prius, bitch. The 380 is capable of a maximum take off weight of well over one million pounds and can carry over 80,000 gallons of fuel. That is enough to power roughly three hundred Prius hybrids for an entire year.

Meanwhile, a first world country that dreams of war, talks about war, makes movies about war, glorifies war, in fact creates its own war that has now lasted longer than even the world wars, doesn't even have a very good grasp of the sort of really nasty war and famine and outright impossibility of life in places such as sub-saharan Africa. You'd think they'd be researching the shit out of that sort of stuff as it makes for great movies. But they're not, they're busy.

They are, instead, watching America's Top Model. This is good, though, because the alternatives aren't that appealing. Like prostitute orangutans. That probably sounds funny at first, but:

Pony is an orangutan from a prostitute village in Borneo. We found her chained to a wall, lying on a mattress. She had been shaved all over her body..

.. You could choose a human if you preferred, but it was a novelty for many of the men to have sex with an orangutan..

.. It took us over a year to rescue her, because every time we went in with forest police and local officers we would be overpowered by the villagers, who simply would not give her up.

That seemed like an obvious hoax to me, but I did a crossword yesterday where the word 'hoax' was an answer and I figured the fates wouldn't do that sort of thing to me twice in a row. I also did some research and the people involved and the organizations mentioned, at least, do exist.

Reading something like that, in Vice of all places, might cause me to reach for the 'ol remote myself on some occasions, but I'm a glutton on more than one level. And what is there to show for it but gold digging pedophilia millionaires.

No, really. I got tired of saying "I couldn't make this shit up if I tried" a long time ago so you'll have to do without, or maybe close your eyes and imagine me saying it instead, animated into gyrations of emphatic ellicitations as I personify the incredulousness that you will have when I get around to finishing the story:

A forerunner to YouTube, [the Digital Entertainment Network - DEN] was brought down by the pedophile appetites of founder Marc Collins-Rector, who had promised to build "the last network," burying TV forever. Its three founders lived in a VC-funded mansion in L.A. where boys -- promised stardom in Web clips -- [filed lawsuits claiming to have been] raped after decadent parties.

What happened after the three founders -- including Disney child star Brock Pierce -- fled the FBI by heading for Spain? An investigative report by Radar Magazine catches up with Marc Collins-Rector, who is walking rakishly free in London...and his protege Brock Pierce, whose giant company IGE -- which buys and sells cash in "World Of Warcraft" and other games -- is winning rave write-ups in Fortune and other magazines. In our long investigation, we discovered strong evidence that Collins-Rector -- who is hiding his money from child abuse victims -- may have helped fund IGE.

Plus you can now watch their hilarious/twisted flagship Web show, "Chad's World," a pedophile fantasy based on the founders' own lives.

Hilarious.

Twisted.

But I am probably not the first one to point out the great potential for aural comedic gold that is the name of a man who enjoys anal sex with young boys, Collins-Rector.

And just like that, I - slack jawed, wide-eyed, scratching my head in complete mystification over a world where all of these puzzle pieces and orangutans and jumbo jets could possibly all fit together - find myself with a lack of energy and no conclusion, *poof* - magic - those mystery dots of the humanverse, pixels of perceptions, words, poems, prose, people's very thoughts and ideas up on the screen.. when you are done with them, when the sentence has finished, they will no longer embody me or mine, acting on my behalf in your brain - they'll be just pixels, plainly.. periodic shifts of electrical light.