Sharon's Advocate and a tiny, indestructible Jack Black, the transmigrating weed thief

Sharon had just passed, and I was dealing with the nursing staff at Sutter Home Health and Hospice. I had a few grievances that I needed to air, so I called a meeting with some of the staff. One of the nurses had fallen under my lens as being someone partially responsible for Sharon's demise, so I let loose on her with a torrent of accusations, some justified, others just mean and spiteful.

"It was your neglect and lack of compassion that led to Sharon getting more ill!" I rasped at the nurse.

(It occurs to me, just writing these words, that these were things that I had personally felt responsible for, and the finger of guilt should have been pointed squarely at me.)

As I spoke these words, the nurse, who was dressed in an all white nun's habit, complete with winged headdress, levitated several stories up into the air and spread her arms out, Christ-like, silhouetted by the sun. She then plummeted to the earth and lay crumpled on the ground. 

I tried to console her, telling her that I'd spoken too harshly, that I shouldn't have singled her out; there was enough blame to go around. She wasn't comforted though. She was broken, and I felt bad. I decided to channel the bad feeling into anger with her superiors. Someone had to be responsible.

Fuming, I went into the office of the administrator who ran the entire department and talked right down his throat. 

"How can you run this place in such a manner?" I choked out the words. I was getting too emotional, but I didn't care. He needed to hear this. "You've overworked your staff, and they aren't properly trained to deal with the situations they encounter. You do this to save money, but at the expense of the patient." 

I felt I'd gotten my point across because he withered under my scalding tone. That dream ended, but soon I was immersed in an odd situation involving Jack Black and some of his rowdy musician friends. 

 

I was at my house, somewhere in an ambiguous suburb, possibly near LA, but it could have been anywhere, really. I had a few people over for a jam session, but I didn't know any of them. They were all new faces except for one: Jack Black, the pudgy, over-the-top comedic actor. Jack found my weed stash and started pulling out baggies and distributing them to all of his friends. 

"Hey, guys! Look what I found!" he said gleefully, as he stuck his face into one of the bags and inhaled so deeply that bits of pot crumbles got stuck in his nose hairs.

This was not cool, and I told him to put it back, but instead he pulled out a giant bud and proceeded to eat it. Such a rookie, I thought to myself.

"Come on, Jack. Even you should know, you can't get high on it that way. It hasn't been cooked properly. It's still raw." My lecture on decarboxylation was lost on the uneducated. He stuffed more of my weed into his mouth.

This perturbed me something fierce, and I told him to cut it out, but he ignored me and put his whole head inside the baggie. This was too much for me, and in one quick motion, I grabbed the bag and Jack, and crammed his entire body down into the baggie, somehow miniaturizing him in the process. He was now a tiny, wriggling little Jack Black, no bigger than a GI Joe or some other plastic action figure. 

I quickly closed up the bag, trapping him inside. I could see his little face pressed up against the plastic, eyes wide and screaming, though his cries didn't make it out past the walls of his plastic prison. Well, good, I thought, at least I'd shut him up.

The other members of the group dispersed, leaving me with a silently screaming little weed thief, trapped inside a plastic bag of his own plunder. I decided I needed to dispose of him, so I pondered how I might do it. I didn't want to just throw him and the weed in the garbage, since he was still alive and squirming around in the baggie. 

I thought I'd just find a city bus and place the bag on it. Let him become someone else's problem, like some malevolent little genie in a bottle. The problem with city buses is that there is never one around when you need it, especially when you live in the suburbs on a side street. I carried the squirmy little bag around for a while and finally decided that I'd just step on him.

I placed the bag on the ground and tried to smash it with my boot. It proved to be more difficult than I'd imagined. Tiny Jack had morphed into a Darth Vader looking black plastic helmeted head with evil glowing eyes and a crazy fixed grin on his face. 

Stomp, stomp, stomp--nothing. The hard plastic was incredibly resilient. Thankfully, he was still trapped in the bag. 

I didn't know quite what to do with this tiny, indestructible plastic demon in a weed bag, so, as usual, I woke up. Thank God.