Last night, I had the strangest dream.  I was absolutely in love with a woman named Kelly, but, much to my chagrin, she was a lesbian.  But I was so crazy about her, I flew up to New York City and had a sex-change operation.  I arrived at Dr. Johnson-Whacker’s office with a Polish sausage and left with a Hot Pocket.

     After the surgery, I had dinner with Kelly.  She was deeply moved by the fact that I’d gone to such an extreme, but she already had a girlfriend, who was currently vacationing in New York — and, besides, she’d rather be allergic to everything and shit herself every time she sneezed than go out with a freak like me.

     Realizing I could never get her to fall for me the way I fell for her, I called the doctor in New York and asked for my penis back.

     He said, “I’m sorry, but we’ve already sold it.”

     “Sold it?”

     As it turned out, the woman who had purchased my penis — and was now wearing it — was none other than Kelly’s girlfriend.  She wanted to surprise Kelly.  Well, she did . . . but then Kelly no longer wanted to have anything to do with her.  “If I wanted a dick,” she said, pointing at me, “I would’ve dated this freak.”

     But when Kelly’s girlfriend saw me, she instantly fell in lust.  And so did I.

     Kelly was livid.  In a fit of rage, she pulled a semi-automatic handgun out of her purse, shot her ex-girlfriend five times, shot me four times, and used the last round on herself.

I woke up.  It was 3:00 a.m.  My throbbing erection had torn through my sweat-saturated sheets and shot a great big glob of goo onto my ceiling fan.