what are we feeding them?!?

I had volunteered for some sort of animal protection/rescue group.  Today we are in the desert leaving out white 1x2 in nuggets for the snakes to eat.  But first, we must make the nuggets.  

Before me is a large pile (taller than me) of a white, fluffy, sandy substance.  I learn that this substance is actually snake feces.  We are going to shovel it into a machine where it will be pressed into nuggets.  "We're feeding them their own poo?!?"  I think to myself. Anyway, I begin to shovel, when my nephew Paul tells me there is an easier way.   He dives headfirst into the pile until I can only see his shoes.  Then he rolls out, his body like the center of snowball, until he is covered in a 12 inches of thick, fluffy, snake poo.   Paul then peels the poo blanket off of him and comes back to do it again.

I take off my cardigan (to dive in) and notice that the guy standing next to me is wearing a mohair jacket exactly like the one I had in high school.  We begin talking about the coincidence of him finding it at Goodwill. I see that it even had creases at the cuffs where I had rolled the sleeves. "That HAS to be my old jacket!"  I'm so surprised to see it again.  

New and Improved Instant Messaging

My psycho, serial killer, horror movie villain father has been dead for a while. Once a year, from dawn to dusk, he is able to contact me from beyond by scratching messages in my skin. I have to do his bidding, or there will be dire, deadly consequences.

Today is that day.  I have received a message and I head out with my sister to fulfill his wishes.  I arrive at a businessman's grand house.  It seems his apple trees did not bloom, and I have been instructed to switch out the apples to better his business.  I do this and scratch a message back to Dad: "what next?"  He replies: "YOU DON'T QUESTION ME."

My sister, a friend and I head into a biker bar to wait for more instructions.  While in there, we reminisce over photos of us leaping naked off the bar roof last summer.

The End.

tell me again why we can't just fly over the bridge?

I'm in northern California, driving through some very picturesque mountainous forest in a convertible with a friend.  We are heading toward a bridge, but the car isn't moving as fast as I'd like, so I stand up with my head above the windshield, hoping this somehow gives us more speed.

Perspective changes and I'm now in Jeff's helicopter.  We fly halfway over the bridge and then turn back.  Jeff is heading toward the helipad at the base of the bridge, but we were too fast and missed it.  Second attempt, but now I'm in a parachute. I land on the helipad as if I was sliding down a slide and Jeff is there to catch my feet at the end.