Eat your heart out, Gary Wright

After turning off Rosie O'Donnell, I looked up to see that I'm on a stage with an audience who's expecting me to perform the dress rehearsal of the big production number. But as the curtains rise, I am now watching the show involving Mickey Rooney in a sequined blue tux popping out of the floor lip-synching to the Gay Hits of Broadway. My attention shifts to the stage itself, which moves like a massive conveyer belt, speeding set pieces off stage. I watch with my mother as the panels of the stage open up to reveal the depths below, and suddenly begin to line up on edge to form a big herring-bone pattern. Turns out that this is all part of a famous but anonymous avant-garde artist's latest piece which also involves shreds of cardboard, a bucket, and some raw poultry to spell out the word "imagination" which my mother is convinced is spelled incorrectly, though I can't tell for sure because of the glazed donut in the way. I nod approvingly.
When I look up, I'm in my friend's bedroom where she's being tied up by an unlikeable coworker who then drives off in her pickup truck across the farmfield outside, waving at me pleasantly over her shoulder. Once she's gone, I bend down to undo the bungee cord strapping my friend to the pipe below the window, which I look out to see a stunt plane flying overhead. In the distance is a giant flock of migrating black-and-white birds, which I first mistake for flying penguins but realize are auks and tufted puffins. My friend starts to freak out as she views them through her binoculars and one veers straight towards us at a high rate of speed. Turns out it's a guy sky diving with batwings, and he crashes headfirst through the bedroom wall and starts to sell us insurance against pipe and plaster damage in case anyone else decides to plow through our walls. I turn away from his presentation and back to my desk where I'm getting instructions on turning high-grade uranium into fissile plutonium from a guy who, after answering my many questions and assuring me I'm not receiving a lethal dose of radioactivity, proceeds to demonstrate proper bare-handed technique to apply pressure to the little grey chunk of powdery metal, making it brittle and silvery. I hand him a towel to wipe the brown-sugary sticky metal from his fingers, get an in-depth lesson in secret government programs to stockpile and purify the necessary uranium, and offer him a cow with his coffee.
Then I wake up.

Sshhhhh, I think my subconscious may be insane.