Where do dreams come from?  Are they subconscious remnants of the days events?  Are they connections to alternate realities?  Are are they just dreams of things you wish that could be?  Oh how I wish this place existed.

It was the largest indoor extravaganza I’ve ever seen dreamed.  The group that I visited the establishment with immediately split into pairs or off on their own as soon as the doors opened.  As I traversed the expansive main aisle, shelves that would have towered over buildings.  Imagine being inside of a Christmas tree.  Imagine Las Vegas in a warehouse.  That was this place.  Anything and everything you could want to buy was within (or just out of) your reach.

As I ambled about, I stumbled into a live trivia game show in the style of Who Wants To Be a Millionaire hosted by none other than the last living Golden Girl, Blanche Devereaux herself, Rue McClanahan.  I participated for a while, until the sound of striking pins was audible in the distance.

In search of the growing cacophony of mechanical wonders and games, I passed a giant ice sculpture of a polar bear.  There was a nameplate, but I didn’t bother reading it at that point.

I headed toward the festival atmosphere, where a rollercoaster, a disco dance floor, a pool hall, a bowling alley, a roller rink, and an arcade all intertwined without any walls or ceilings but those of the warehouse.  I got lost in the glory for so long, that as the day broke through the high windows, I made my way back to the ice sculpture.  The night hold taken its toll, and most of what remained was an icy lump and a fountain puddle.

It was then I finally read the plaque:

INGREDIENTS: Cottage cheese and Mountain Dew… gross.