Drink Magazine

The Bourne Mis-Identity

By Therealbarman @TheRealBarman

The Bourne Mis-Identity

When I was born a terrible mistake was made and God failed to include enough common sense and logic in my DNA to allow me to think and function like a normal adult.  What this means is that I am interesting enough and have the ability to generate compelling and original thoughts, but I’m lucky if I can remain focused long enough to remember to pull my pants down when I pee.

My most crippling characteristic (or possibly greatest superpower; it’s yet to be determined) is that I seem to be missing the Reality gene.  Translation:  I participate in the grandiose fantasies usually reserved for ten-year-old boys.

Movies are largely to blame.  Growing up I dreamed of being Luke Skywalker, Rambo, Steven Seagal, and more recently of course, Jason Bourne. (That reminds me, I should warn you about something:  approaching me right after I’ve seen an action movie is risky to say the least, as this is when my kick-ass emotions are at their peak which means I am more than likely to see you as an undercover operative than my son’s teacher, and when you ask me if I’m coming to back-to-school night I will say something in my “important voice” like, “You tell Vinnie the Sausage and his goons that I can’t be bought.”  Either that or I will kick you in the stomach and search you for a hidden wire.)

I’m not saying that dreams are unhealthy or damaging, because for most people they aren’t.  They propel us to grow and achieve and envision the possibility of success every morning when we crawl out of bed.  Nevertheless, dreams simply need to categorized.  For instance, there are dreams like becoming and architect and designing bridges or one day owning a vacation home in Costa Rica, and then there are dreams like the ones I have where I foil corrupt CIA agents or the Mafia by employing brilliant tactical strategies that keep my three steps ahead, as well as freaky-swift hand-to-hand combat and special weapons mastery that terminates anyone who tries to bring me in.

Since some people are more visual, allow me to externalize the visions that go on inside my head (luckily this drawing only took me six hours to construct).

The Bourne Mis-Identity

This is me taking down corrupt CIA agents, or possibly large oil company CEO’s who have sinister laughs and jack up gas prices for no reason at all.  I ran out of room for further description, but my backpack is full of Jason Bourne high-tech assassin shit like tracking devices and those things that look like hockey pucks that you stick on the sides of buildings so you can blow a hole in the wall.  I also feel the fossil is a pretty sharp addition, and perhaps even thematic when you consider the oil company angle.

Though I am capable of hallucinating on every level, I seem to specialize in disaster situations.  I’m not sure I even have a choice in the matter.  I enact entire scenarios in my head in which I take down terrorists and save dozens of hostages at least once a week, and afterwards the hostages fawn over me and the terrorist curse me and shake their fists like the villains at the end of every Scooby-Doo episode.

If I’m not saving hostages, I’m toppling corrupt government officials who try to pass shady laws or prevent gay marriages.  They come to me and threaten to harm me and my dog if I don’t keep quiet about their top secret and controversial issues and I respond by turning their fucking universe INSIDE-OUT!

For whatever reason, I have found that my most vivid fantasies are formed while I’m either driving or in the shower, which means I will stand under the spray for 45 minutes until the water turns cold and jars me back to the present, or you can find me happily cruising along in the fast lane of I-680 at a comfortable 35 MPH.

My greatest fear is that I will wind up like Russell Crowe in A Beautiful Mind where the line between fantasy and reality fades gradually each day until I wake up one day in a padded room hugging myself in a white coat with buckles while my family looks at me with pity through that ridiculously small square window in the door.

This is not one of those vague fears either.  I have actually pictured the moment in my mind when I’m too far gone to recognize a phantom truth:  The phone rings, I pick it up and a voice on the other line says, “Hello, Dave. This is Agent Callahan.  The oil companies are planning to raise gas prices to $7 per gallon.  Also they are holding a room full of orphans and nuns hostage in the infant ward at the hospital. The world needs you…immediately!”

Then I slowly rub my chin and consider the risks.  ”$7 per gallon, eh?” I say.  ”We’ll just see about that.”

And then I am gone…until the water turns cold and I am forced to dry off and get dressed for work.

Cheers, until next time (unless I’m sent to an asylum),

The RB

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