I just had the strangest dream. I was sexually harassed by these Russian women cops fresh out of Academy. They wanted to know if I was a t*rrorist and if I had any secret information about Finland's plans to join NATO in the near future. I tried to tell them that I was just a poor boy from Tampere with not a nickel in my pocket and didn't know about such things, but suffice it to say I was not believed.
I don't want to tell you the harrowing details of how exactly I was tortured but it involved a contraption of ostrich feathers, gearwheels and some everyday kitchen utensils, with a considerable amount of margarine. After my ordeals at the hands of Czar Vladimir's finest, the 101st Cheesecake Brigade, I was both physically and mentally exhausted. Their staff sergeant, a thick-set middle-aged matron in dark blue uniform shouted instructions to her troops: "Davay davay! Fork him, pork him, Peter Tork him!"
"Please, don't pull my Rod Stewart so hard!" I cried in anguish. Needless to say, my pleas went unheeded. Gladly I was saved just in the nick of time by the near-divine intervention of the Montgolfier Brothers who took me to their Chantilly lace balloon hovering over the Red Square. Barely dodging Russian anti-aircraft artillery our Mathias Rusty vehicle took us to our asylum in the sky. We saw ten thousand karate nuns ascending, Saint Peter saluting them with a Masonic hand signal. All the archangels were there with their trombones, playing Dixieland jazz. Buddha gave us the OK sign and winked. Suddenly the archangels shouted in unison to me: "Duck, you schmuck!" but it was too late, and the asteroid which killed the dinosaurs hit me to my gulliver. Exactly that moment I woke up and found myself lying on the floor.
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