My Sister vs Batman

I recently discovered a new sushi restaurant not far from my house. Because I insist on walking as much as possible in Los Angeles, a city not noted for its inhabitants willingness to use bi-pedal motion, I am thrilled. And it's actually pretty good on top of that. So I have that going for me. At least I think.

My sister was visiting this weekend. She has a job that brings her from the East Coast to the West Coast quite a bit. So I get to see her a lot. And I figured we'll walk over to my new find, this sushi restaurant, where we only have to walk and the food is pretty good and it's not that badly priced. I don't know what happened last night, but the fish didn't swim in my stomach too good. It's not that I had to throw up or suddenly wound up hanging onto the toilet like a golden ticket in the Willy Wonka movie, but I just didn't feel so well. I figured I could sleep it off.

I took my place on the couch in front of the window in front of my apartment and closed my eyes. I should have figured something was not quiet right when I started to have some weird thoughts start darting through my head. I don't remember the specifics but they did involve in order... my business partner, a girl I went out on a date with and a colleague. Oh yeah. And my sister.

For those of you who don't know my sister, she is no pushover. My dad used to say that if he were to ever get in an alley fight he would bring my sister. Despite the immediate emasculating properties of this statement, the additional ancillary emasculating property is that I pretty much have to agree with him. And it's not like my sister is some bruiser. She is pretty, petite and not incredibly tall. It's not as if she would ever be mistaken for a lineman on the Pittsburgh Steelers. I easily outweigh her by 100 lbs. But pound for pound, she her Roy Williams to my... I don't know... Richard Simmons. She is a take no shit, get things done kinda woman. And she spent the first twelve years of my life kicking the shit out of me. Seriously.

So as I finally was able to doze into a deeper sleep, the recesses of my brain started to take me on a peculiar journey. I know so many people who really, really, I mean really, like Ultimate Fighting Championships. Even my best friend, who is a lover not a fighter and someone I would never peg as an enthusiast, and he loves the shit. He is completely mesmorized by the large hunks of meat trying to stop each other's breathing. Me? I can't stand it. For a lot of reasons, most of them being the ones that cause people to drink tea with a pinky in the air.

So as I am paralyzed in my subconscious state, I find my mind wandering into a Mexican style bullfighting ring. My sub-subconscious is wondering what the hell I am doing there. My subconscious tells it to shut up because it's in the driver's seat, and quickly maneuvers my mind in front of a fight poster. I was like any fight poster you would see at a boxing match, expect this one featured my sister with her multi-toned hair and one caped crusader with his pointy ears. A woman with a common touch and a large bat-themed champion of the common cause.

Flash and suddenly I am on the inside of this arena and now it resembles the manor in Wuthering Heights. With a lot ditches. I mean a lot of them. Hundreds. Maybe thousands. And there they are. Going at it. My sister and the big bat. And my sister is kicking the living dog shit out of this over-sized man in tights. Oh I forgot to mention that my sister was also able to fly. And they take flight and my sister continues to to unleash a torrent of living hell. And suddenly she has the bat guy down. And all I can do, in the paralysis on my dream state, is think, "Man, I gotta make this stop."

So I run up to the two of them and I realize that my sister has the dark knight's head under her heel. Which, btw, looks like a wrestler's boot circa mid-south wrestling days on the gulf coast. And I realize that there is something not right about about this and I am able to pry my sister's boot of this poor abused superhero's head. And maybe what I was really doing was rescuing my manhood from a inadvertent and nascent emasculation by my father years earlier. And then I woke up... itching. Not sure if that was my wounded pride, that had been wounded all these years or just some upholstery cleaner I was allergic to.