Melancholy Dog sits at his kitchen table, eating breakfast. Across from him is Thaddeus Flea... who, he can't help but notice, is six feet tall and reading the newspaper.

"Oh. I'm dreaming, aren't I?" asks Melancholy.

"It's possible," Thaddeus replies. "Or, you could be awake and insane. It's hard to tell."

"It is. Could you hand me the sports section if you're through with it?"

"It's all yours."

Melancholy reads. Thaddeus sips tea.

"I just thought of another option," says Thaddeus. "This could be that alcohol withdrawal thing... what's it called?"

"Delirium Tremens."

"Right. So there's that."

"I guess. Christ, I hope I'm not at that point. If I'm that far along, I'm screwed. Damn, the Cubs lost."

Thaddeus reads an article about poodle-toasters while Melancholy peruses an advertisement. He begins to read out loud:

"Our attraction this week features much better thugs. They will claw and make with the brutish girl-slaps. In this corner: Zilla of the Gods. Or he is a squirrel maybe, and he has magic fur? But that's his shtick: to dazzle with his confusion-inducing pelt. And his eyes. Those fat and manly see-orbs cry testosterone 24-7. Don't let him wink at you. Certain death will follow.

His opponent: Philharmonic Robotoid! Who destroys gramophones and makes them into unruly metal feathers which then tickle the bellies of goats, causing them to pee freely upon the landscape. Way to go Robotoid. I had that landscape dry-cleaned just last week. What else? Philharmonic Robotoid also excretes a unique yet little known product called Bitter Whip. It's a dessert topping that tastes just like the tears of sad children. It has psychotropic qualities, and you will travel with Talking Gnat through a land of chrome piano strings that have been wrapped around unfashionable shoes that fit no one. If you stand too close, their ruffian-keepers will hurl insults at your unsightly knees, which are probably sensitive about their looks.

Who will win this fight?! Zilla of the Gods? Philharmonic Robotoid? We are too drunk to know probably! And yet we cheer, somewhat half-heartedly. The winner will get to live in a cab that has no doors in middle of Tilted Lake, from which all of the water has spilled so that it's actually just a hill. Work it anyway. ‘Work it with malice,’ say the chanting crowds. They don't tell you what to 'work' though, so please remain pure in the Lord’s admittedly infrequent glances. Use those passion hands with grace."

Melancholy stops reading and says, "You know, this is pretty mundane stuff for Delirium Tremens. Those are supposed to be terrifying. This is probably a dream. They'll go that way every now and then: dull, boring, just long stretches of gibberish."

"Even so," replies Thaddeus. "It has the potential to be interesting. Let's say this is a dream... what would happen if you went, right now, and took a nap? Would the dream end? Or would it continue, forcing you to stare at an image of yourself just lying there, doing nothing?"

"I don't know. And if I did dream that I was taking a nap, what would happen if I started to dream within that nap? Dreams about meta-dreams. Oy. My brain hurts."

Melancholy trades the sports section for the classifieds. He takes out his left eye, dips it in coffee and eats it. "Mmm... you should try one," he says, popping out his right eye and handing it to Thaddeus, who chews appreciatively.

Melancholy turns his gaping eye-sockets back to the classified section. He lifts a page and points out a particular ad. "Dead sparrows," he mutters, slurring his speech terribly. "Nine for a dollar."

"Oh, how precious," says the flea.