Subconscious Rage - A love story between a child and his mother

My brother likes to joke that I'm a powder keg of rage, ready to explode at any moment. I'm not arguing with the statement, but I don't really see the need to bring it up all the time.  Why poke the bear? With that said I do believe there is a bit of the pot calling the kettle black on this one.

This is a text I received from my brother a few hours ago:

Just woke from a rage dream. Sybil had a lesbian lover. I told her I couldn't wait for her to die from AIDS, and that I would dump her ashes in the latrine at Auschwitz.

I also went nuts in the dream because she selected Barry to walk her down the aisle. This all happened in our Toyota Corolla.

Every sentence of that text is amazing but let's dissect it line by line:

Sybil had a lesbian lover. - Terrifying on so many levels.  I'm picturing her with someone who looks just like her.  A dopplegangbanger.  Why am I picturing this?

I couldn't wait for her to die from AIDS - Sure I might tell her to drop dead daily, but of AIDS? Come on.  That is really some backwards thinking.  I would like to think as a society we have progressed beyond thinking AIDS kills gay people.  He probably should have said I can't wait till you get HPV and die of throat cancer.  Much more plausible.

I would dump her ashes in the latrine at Auschwitz. - This might be the statement I use to get my brother institutionalized.  At the very least I could get him put under psychiatric hold for 72 hours. Then again, going to Poland this time of year might be nice.

I also went nuts in the dream because she selected Barry to walk her down the aisle. - I love the fact, my brother is upset by our mother picking me to walk her down the aisle instead of him. His insecurity with regard to our mother liking me more than him is comical.  Let me assure him, she hates us both equally. On that note, I'm still hopeful my mother remarries.  Would be nice to curse at some 80 year old man/woman and say don't tell me what to do you're not my father/mother.

This all happened in our Toyota Corolla. - I have such fond memories of that car.  It was a rolling trash can with a carburetor. My father called it the Lamumba wagon. I have no clue why but it was such an awesome and fitting name.

On that note maybe this rage dream was just what I needed to start posting again.

Rage = mental fuel