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Dreaming of Bill Maher (and Soccer is Bullshit.)

The promo: I love Real Time with Bill Maher and will miss Bill until September when new episodes are on HBO, Friday nights.

The caveat: I frequently dream of Bill. It’s not sexual…although if you’re Freudian you’re sure everything is sexual. Get over it. I watch past episodes of Real Time on YouTube so much he’s intertwined and entangled in my neurons. I invite you to read, but don’t read anything into it. And put some clothes on, you perve!

The dream: I was standing by a stage door and Bill Maher passed by after his show. “I love your show!” I said, self-conscious and a bit googly-eyed.

“Thanks,” he said, and shook my hand. “It was nice meeting me,” he said. He motored and as he walked away yelled back over his shoulder, “…which you really haven’t!”

It was so in character I woke up laughing. You wouldn’t guess it looking at my station in life, but my subconscious is a genius.

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