Sleeping in the driver's seat of a school bus parked on a hill facing downward, I wake up from a dream about being on the Family Feud television program. There were five of me going against a family named the Richardsons (Father = James, smart sport coat, slick hair, big chin Mother = Jean, royal blue dress, short permed hair, big glasses Daughter = Megan, fat, yellow dress with one of those napkin looking things on the front Cousin = Amber, fatter, same kind of fat girl dress in green, buck teeth Uncle = Marty, suit too tight, moustache, hairy hands).

Other than having to stand next to four other versions of myself, the most troubling aspect of the game was that all four previous hosts (Richard Dawson, then Ray Combs, then Louie Anderson, then Richard Karn) were trying to host the show at the same time. After doing their intros simultaneously, they lined up single file in front of the Richardsons and one by one got chummy with James and had him introduce his family four times. I knew I was next, or I,I,I,I, and I were next. I wanted to make up fake names for the other mes and say we were quints or something but we all had name tags. So, I said, "All of these people are me, or at least look exactly like me. So, I guess we are family?" Each host reacted to this like I was just introducing my fat, boring wife, my horribly ordinary children, and some other unspecified, unremarkable family member.

I met James in the first head-to-head battle. After James shook my hand a little too long, Richard Dawson said, “We pretended to conduct a survey of 100 people, but instead our writers just decided what sounded right for this question: How many times a week do you use a porto-potty?” Then, Ray, Louie, and Richard Karn asked the same question before the clock started, so I had plenty of time to prepare an answer. After they had all finished speaking, I buzzed in immediately and said, “seven,” thinking that most Americans worked on construction sites or at cheap carnivals, and that they would have to shit at least once a day in a humid, squalid fiberglass chamber filled with aqua marine tinged light and homophobic, anti-semetic graffiti. Everyone looked at me like I was crazy, including the other mes, and, obviously, James followed me with the number one answer of “two.”

I didn’t really pay attention to the Richardsons answering their questions (they got them all right). Instead, I spent a minute looking at myselves and wondering if they all were hungry too, and suddenly the mes were down by 120 points. Me2 went next and won control of “Name a kind of bread” with “white.” Mes 3, 4, and 5 swept the board with “rye,” “wheat,” and “pumpernickel.” I would have said “potato,” and I would have a gotten a big strike accompanied by the loud loud buzzer horn.

For the rest of the game, the hosts took turns asking the questions. When Richard Dawson went, the others threw dice. When Ray Combs went, the others made fun of how short he was. When Louie Anderson went, the others got balloons, blew them full of air, and let the out air while stretching the open end taut to mimic his voice. When Richard Karn went, the others put on plaid shirts and cut wood.

I, I, I, I, and I soundly thumped the Richardsons (mostly I think because one of the other mes threatened to rip one of the tiny microphones from the counter (I guess it would be called a counter) in front of us and shove it into the eye of the next person who said, “Good answer,” when one of their family members said something moronic like “pin the tail on the donkey” in response to “Name a game or sport that uses an animal.” Richard Karn asked us the “Fast Money” questions, “us” being me and one of the other mes. Richard Dawson hit on the fatter cousin, Ray Combs sat in a corner drinking straight vodka, and Louie, well, you know, he was eating Boston cream pies. I went first and got 145 points (55 away from the big money) but the other me started stuttering and didn’t answer the first question until there were only 4 seconds left. (“Name something you keep in you glove compartment.” “Ff-f-f-f-f-fff-f-f-f-f-ffl—flllf-l-fl—l-f-l-lf-flfl-fllf-ll—lffllf-l-f-l-fl-flashlight.”) And then, Richard Karn was a dick and ran out of time before asking, “What state has the best beaches?”

I sprinted, leapt, and dropped kicked myself in the face. Teeth were lost and a brawl ensued, at the end of which I wake up in the driver’s seat of a school bus parked on a hill facing downward. I release the parking brake and head down the hill in neutral with the engine off. I reach the bottom and coast gently up the other side and back down again, then back up, then back down again, over and over until I stop.