Cornfed in “I, Duckman”

It's the dream again, Duckman. You're letting it win. I know. I used to have a recurring dream. I dream I fell and hit my head on a fishbowl. Hurt myself just bad enough to work the graveyard shift at a convenience store. A group of Hare Krishnas always came in at 4 a.m. and bought 16 gallons of Mr. Slushi and a package of banana flavored Ding Dongs. Then the Swedish Bikini Team jumped out of a magazine and read Moby-Dick to me inside a giant carton of cottage cheese. "Why?" I'd ask myself. "What could it mean? Am I mad? Or is the world just a mystery too complex to understand?"