Dark Overbored, specializing in hacking, doorknob analysis, and dream interpretation, has again revealed inside information from the Guaido camp.
The dream goes like this:
The hall is hired, the bunting and balloons strung, the tables laid with goodies and punch, the orchestra tapping its toe with nothing to do.
You’ve put on a magnificent party for the faithful with one problem only: nobody—that is nobody—has shown up.
Whaat? Alone at your party after inviting a lot of people, plus advertising, radio announcements, TV, and talk talk talk?
The orchestra leader (yawning) asks: “Can we go home now?”
The macabre nature of this dream will bring Mr. Guaido to his doctor’s office pale and trembling.
And worse. He tosses for two hours in a morbid fit. Then the nightmares resume.
He is summoned to an office. A man with large white mustache sits behind a desk scowling at him.
“Where are the volunteers carrying the aid packages across the border from Columbia, the out-of-date food packages, the nails, the wire, the weaponry we have arranged? Why is it not happening?”
Mr. Guaido is nearly speechless, stuttering out, “It-it should have, it-it could have—”
“Do you realize who I am?”
“El Presidente, your honor, I believe . . .”
The nightmares continue.
Another office, where a man with nearly bald head, plus always smiling, but a strange, sinister type of smiling, confronts him.
"Senor Guaido, yes, we seek to keep them uncertain, you see--and in the dark . . . Not sedated."
"Si, senor! I mean yes, sir!"
“And your plan now, Mr. Guaido? As to whether we should keep you on?”
“I’m thinking, your honor, maybe some bare-assed ladies, you know? Shaking their boobies and wagging their assets . . .”
“You realize all this delay is very annoying, especially after you promised thousands would show up to the aid trucks and carry the stuff in? Are you nuts or what?”
“Naked ladies! The women, your honor! Maybe my wife!”
“I suppose next you’ll be asking Bolsonaro about a golden showers scheme we could use?”
“Oh, my God! I hadn’t thought of that! Yes, Yes! I think . . . maybe . . . ah . . . ah . . .”
A bit of thunder rolls across Mr. Guaido’s roof and he sits bolt upright in his bed.