Dougal and Margret Gerrity walked into their favorite restaurant on Friday night. About a half hour into their meal, she noticed that Hitler, Mao, Stalin, Ho Chi Minh, and James Bond were sitting at the next table.
“Oh No,” she thought. “Puh lease don’t let him get started on his dream again. That lunatic always talks about his dream whenever they’re here.”
The instant he noticed them, he mounted his soap box. “You know, honey,” he said. “My dream has so many Layers of Meaning I can simply never Tire of pondering its profound depth.”
As always, she made it her place to humor him politely, tactfully sipping her root beer Float, absent mindedly noticing the Unctuous complexions of several teenagers within eyeshot, as well as a portly woman wearing a green sweatshirt with a reference to Knock, Ireland on it.
“Oh well,” she thought. “I guess it’s no big deal. Other couples Fight over such ordinary things, as Current events and food. Our problems revolve around his having a dream that comes to life and follows us into public places. We can count on many happy years ahead. It’s only one more bundle of Yeet anyway.”
Eventually the crowd started to Disperse, and they went home.