I had the weirdest dream last night. I woke up and I was in a pickle. Besides being in a precarious situation, I was literally inside a pickle. Worse yet, it was a dill pickle, and I prefer sweet cucumbers.

I didn’t know what to do. I needed to use my noodle. I thought and thought and thought. And I realized, I’m literally food for thought. 

I know that by now, you must think I’m full of beans, but I was beginning to think I was nuts. But I wasn’t nuts. I was a pickle.

It could be worse, I thought. I could be in a jam.

I looked around and found that I wasn’t alone. There was a potato sitting on a couch. In the corner was a giant block of cheddar. He seemed to be the big cheese. 

In the middle of the room, an Oreo was punching numbers into a computer. He was a real smart cookie. The cream of the crop.

Next to him were twin legumes, like two peas in a pod. 

A cute little muffin was on the other side of them. It appeared that she had a bun in the oven. 

Across the room was a horseshoe chewing the fat with a frying pan that was all sizzle and no steak. They said they were the best thing since sliced bread. Their products were selling like hotcakes, and they were bringing home the bacon.

They tried to butter me up with their gravy train, but I wouldn’t go over there for all the tea in China. I had enough on my plate. I didn’t need that hot potato. Besides, I know which side of my bread is buttered.

Along came a humble pie with a camera. Say “cheese,” she said. I was a little embarrassed. I had egg on my face. I thought my goose was cooked.

I was ready to wake up and smell the coffee when this real tough cookie came along, slower than molasses and full of sour grapes. Everyone walked on eggshells around him. And that was the whole enchilada. 

Well, there were a few others, mostly pie in the sky. I just cherry-picked the ones I could remember the best. But really, this whole dream was rotten to the core. 

I woke up, and I was in the cigar shop, and there was Big Vince standing over me, shaking my shoulders and telling me to snap out of it. I felt really hungry, too.

I told him about the dream, or the meat of it, anyway. “Well, that takes the cake,” he said.

I told him it was all his fault because I remembered him saying I was an idiom. 

“I didn’t say you were an ‘idiom’,” Vince said. “I said you’re an ‘idiot’.”

Well, I sure mustard that up. 

© Copyright 2020 by David Porter, who can be reached at porter@ramblinman.us. You might want to take this story with a grain of salt.