Magazine | September 7, 2015, Issue

From the Dream Journal of Joseph Biden, Vice President of the United States

Monday, slept well. Woke before the alarm. Here is what I remember from my dream: I was covered in a kind of lightly scented oil — it wasn’t baby oil, that I would have recognized — but some other kind of aromatic oil — and I was moving through a crowd of people and they were all grabbing at me and trying to pull me down but the slickness of the oil and my natural limberness kept me from being entrapped and I slipped through them, gaining speed and momentum as I did, as if being squeezed naked through a crowd of people. What do kids call this? Is this a “mosh pit”? Need to research this more fully.

I don’t remember any particular ending to the movement, just the sense of my naked and oiled body being propelled forward by a large crowd.

Questions: 1) What kind of oil was it and is it available either via Amazon or locally? 2) At first the crowds pulling at me seemed sinister but later it was clear they were actually giving me energy, pushing me forward. What does this mean? 3) As I ponder my political future, what does this dream mean, as regards my natural level of comfort with my body? Is a clothing-optional candidacy something worth exploring?

Tuesday, bad sleep, tossed and turned. Hit snooze button three times. Dr. Jill Biden informed me that several times during the night I sat bolt upright in bed and began singing a version of Taylor Swift’s “Bad Blood” in what sounded like a fake southern accent. (Note to self: Need to research who Taylor Swift is and listen to that song.) What I remember from my dream: being in a conference room looking at graphs and tables and polling results and someone telling me, “Joe, this is just how much people hate you” and then everyone laughing and laughing and then I kept saying, “Wait, is that a joke? Are you guys kidding? What’s the deal here?” And they said, “No, no, it’s a joke, people love you, you can be the big guy,” and then suddenly Barack Obama was there and he had a basketball and he threw it at me, but really aggressively the way sometimes people do, and he kept throwing it hard at me and it hurt my fingertips but I didn’t want to say anything, and he kept throwing it harder and harder and harder and it really hurt and I could feel the tears welling up in my eyes, and he said, “What’s wrong, Joe? Gonna cry? Gonna cry, Crybaby Joe?” And then the ball hit me in the face and everyone was laughing and suddenly I was being strangled by a red pantsuit.

Questions: 1) Do my pollsters laugh at me behind my back? Am I getting the complete numbers I need to make the decisions I need to be making? 2) Need to work on my basketball skills, as this dream highlights an insecurity that I feel during my encounters with potus, and it’s clearly something that weighs on me and affects my sleep patterns. 3) Need to ask Dr. Jill Biden about the pantsuit. Can’t figure that one out.

Wednesday, regular sleep. Woke with the alarm. Did not hit snooze button. Dr. Jill Biden reports no nighttime singing. What I remember from my dream: I am in a hot tub or Jacuzzi-like spa environment with German chancellor Angela Merkel and we are giving each other highly sensual massages while discussing the recent nuclear exchange between Iran and Israel, which means this dream is a dream from the future, which is weird, in which I am potus, and then suddenly we’re both in fluffy robes and sitting in mani-pedi chairs with other members of nato and we’re not talking about the nuclear exchange because it hasn’t happened yet, or something, it’s not really clear, but we’re all of us very concerned about what we keep calling “the events” and then I’m on Air Force One and for some reason there’s a cake and I’m supposed to sign a presidential pardon for Hillary Clinton, who is either in jail or about to go to jail — it isn’t clear, sort of like what happened between Iran and Israel or me and Angela in the hot tub — and I’m trying to sort it all out when I’m suddenly so tired that I fall asleep in the chair, right as I’m being interviewed by the late David Brinkley, both of us, by the way, dressed as wrestlers from the 1950s.

Questions: None. Self-explanatory.

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