Sweet Sachafras

Yesterday I posted a hilarious Borat video over at Wineography (NSFW unless your boss is OK with weenis), when I proclaimed aloud, “I am in love with him.” Which is true. Ever since Talladega Nights I’ve been crushing on Sacha Baron Cohen.

And last night as I slept, my brain decided to make a story starring him. And here’s how it went:

We are in my parents’ house, in my old Pepto Bismol pink bedroom (which is not pink in the dream) and Sacha — in character as a slightly more competent Borat — is helping my dad hang a complicated set of drapes. I come in and start asking where he got the drapes and how much they cost. My dad seems slightly annoyed as would anyone who was getting pestered while hanging drapes. I try to make myself scarce but, like a curious little kid who wants to see what her big sister’s doing with her friends, I can’t help but hang around.

So the time comes for Sacha to leave. Apparently he has been staying with us, helping my parents with odd jobs. He is downstairs in the garage loading things into his big black SUV (is every actor required by SAG to have one of these?) and I pass the garage door to go into the utility room to do some laundry (not really; I just wanted to make it look that way), and go back upstairs because I’ve just remembered that I had him autograph a Hank Williams Jr. shirt of mine at a NASCAR race a while back. (???) The autograph said something funny, and I wanted to show it to him to see if he remembered me. So I go to get the shirt and he follows me and — now out of his Borat get-up and looking normal — asks me how to get on the interstate. I tell him I don’t know and I’ll have to go ask my dad, who is sitting and dinking with the computer in the same room where they just hung drapes. So we go upstairs (it’s a split-level house) and I have dad explain to Sacha how to get on the interstate from Jackson. Then I show him the shirt he autographed and we have a good laugh at what it says (I can’t remember, unfortunately).

Then I notice that he is wearing my Depeche Mode shirt, and I call him on it. He sheepishly admits that he was going to take it, but I make him take it off and change and I push him around nothing else happened, people, because my dad was in the room, dammit!!

And then Sacha Baron Cohen left my house and my life FOREVER.

But I still have that Depeche Mode shirt.

Cold comfort.