No fun road trip

This dream has no discernible beginning and no end, just an intolerably unpleasant middle. I'm only writing it down because I have the obligation to record all my dreams, however mundane or fragmented.

I was in the Walmart parking lot, getting ready for a road trip with Uncle Steve and Richard Leon. For whatever reason, I had picked up a bottle of Ivermectin to apply topically to the tip of my penis. Being in a hurry, I went ahead and unzipped and dipped my dangler in the jar right there in the parking lot. 

I immediately regretted this, however, since the instructions specifically stated that it needed to be rinsed off within 5 minutes of application. I tucked back in and headed for the bathroom inside the Walmart. Police were guarding the door to the restroom, and there were cones and floormats everywhere. Apparently, a man was having an "episode" in one of the stalls.

I pushed past the police, explaining the exigent circumstances, and they warned me about the man in the stall. He was having a blood pressure related event and had become unstable. I took my chances in the stall next to him, but not having any water, I had to rinse off with whatever saliva I could muster. Sub-optimal, to be sure.

Additionally subpar was the floor of the stall I had chosen. It was covered in feces from someone's explosive diarrhea, the likes of which I'd never seen. The sheer area of coverage was impressive. It looked like an actual shit storm had taken place, covering the walls, the ceiling, everything. I was starting to see what the cones and floor mats were all about.

I glanced over the stall, and the blood pressure guy was just getting up to leave. He'd apparently recovered and was no longer a danger. He looked me right in the eye with the most piercing and knowing look, his grey blue eyes telling a story of trouble and begging my forgiveness, for himself and for the state of affairs in the bathroom.

I finished up and made my way out of the store, wiping the fecal mud from my feet on the filthy floormats as I went. I ran back to the car and climbed in, hoping the smell wouldn't linger too long.

The car was a smallish coupe, and I had to ride in a dog kennel precariously placed between the front and back seats, resting on the headrests of both of the driver and the passenger seats. This arrangement was untenable, however, and soon we either switched vehicles, or it managed to morph into a more appropriate conveyance, a class A motor home.

We followed some gravel trucks down a rutty dirt road, being careful to watch the vehicles ahead as they struggled with the rough terrain, hoping to avoid making the same errors. The trucks would pitch and buck as they encountered rocks and dips, but Steve managed to keep our vehicle on smoother ground.

"These motor homes are designed for people like us, to do driving like this," he said. "The average Joe doesn't have a clue how to drive on these kinds of roads, so they make 'em with the best quality suspension, with passenger comfort in mind." I couldn't argue with him there. The ride quality was excellent.

Steve got a phone call from someone out of state and began having a heated discussion with them about real estate. Apparently, we were off to look at some land that he was about to inherit, and the details had yet to be hashed out. I wasn't looking forward to it, since it meant a detour from our original destination, whatever that might have been.

And that was how the dream ended, as uselessly as it began, pointless in all aspects.