Last night, I dreamt that I had traveled from Mars to Venus to go to a party with a gorgeous girl I’d met a week earlier at a Venusian dance club.  Everything was copacetic till we went to a hotel to make love.  You see, my penis was a limousine, but the girl I was with had a sign over her vagina that read, “Compact Cars Only.”

     The next dream started out all right: I was at the public library, and I had a pen for a pizzle, and the beautiful brunette I was with had a blank sheet of paper in place of a pussy.  But, as fate would have it, my pen was out of ink.

     Then, my pen metamorphosed into a 100-watt light bulb, and the woman’s paper became a light socket — but, not surprisingly, I suddenly noticed she was standing in a puddle of water.

     At a pet store in Albuquerque, New Mexico, my wanker morphed into a wiener dog — but, of course, the woman I was about to ask out had a sign over her vulva that read, “No Pets Allowed.”

     Finally — after having been fucked by the fickle finger of fate four times in a row — I found myself in Surprise, Arizona, where I soon met the woman who would become my wife.  My schlong was a black 2005 Jeep Wrangler Unlimited Rubicon, and between her thighs was a nice, smooth road with no potholes.  Shortly after the marriage, however, she finally let me leave the lights on when we had sex.  Only then did I notice the sign beside the road between her legs: “Dead End.”