The Question Room

Ok, finally my migraine seems to be gone, so now I can concentrate on doing a longer post.
I want to tell you all about this weird dream I had earlier, while trying to sleep off the headache.

I dreamed I was spending the night at a house owned by this weird family. (I don't know who they were, I don't know them in real life). There were a few other houseguests as well, including Al Franken and Grandpa Jones from Hee Haw.
This family was really repressed about "bathroom" issues. The following rules were enforced whenever any of us had to go to that section of the house:

1) We had to announce whenever we were going to the bathroom-- except we weren't allowed to call it the bathroom; we had to call it "The Question Room" instead.

2) We were not allowed to be totally naked in The Question Room. If we wanted to bathe, we had to use a sponge or small washcloth soaked in a small jar of soapy water, and we could only uncover whatever body part we were washing at that particular moment. Each of us was assigned our own little jar of soapy water, which we had to carry around with us all the time. I noticed that poor Al Franken had a scouring pad in his jar instead of a sponge or cloth. (ouch!)

3) As we got up and entered the "Question Room" door, we had to audibly pose a question. ANY question, to no one in particular, for no particular reason. The more nonsensical, the better. I wish I could remember what Al Franken's question was. But here are some examples of questions that would have been acceptable:

"Are liquids redundant?"
"Do four aspen branches taste like cloves?"
"Other than vinegar, what else do orange skunks drink?"
"Why is the square root of pi more than your IQ?"
"Whose armpit smells like doritos?"

And everyone in the room would listen to whatever question you asked and discuss it while you were gone.

Get the idea? So after Al Franken came out of the bathroom, I realized I had to go too. So I picked up my jar of soapy water with its little washcloth, and announced that I had to visit The Question Room.
Except as I was about to enter the door, I froze... I couldn't think of a question! Stagefright, writer's block (dreamer's block?), call it what you will, but I couldn't think of a question. So I stood there, anxious because I really had to pee, trying really hard to think of something-- anything-- to ask.
Finally, in desperation, I said "What is nine times eight?" and hurried on in.
I was so disappointed in my question. Somehow I knew that everyone in the other room was looking around with expressions of disgust, thinking "What the hell kind of question was THAT??"

And of course that's when I woke up... with a full bladder.
.