I swear to god, it was actually Bill Pullman. I closed my eyes and counted to 10 under the assumption that this was simply another of my many waking nightmares, but he would not dissipate. He hung from the ceiling by virtue of some elaborate contraption that must have been installed overnight. It looked like equal parts examination table and torture rack, and he was strapped to its upper-most base by what looked like a pair of Darth Vader's ski-boots. His face was purple and flushed with blood; it was apparent he had been inverted for some time. A single bead of sweat rolled down his neck and traced the contours of his jawline. "Bill Pullman?" I ventured hesitantly, not wanting to antagonize a potentially furious hallucination. His eyes snapped open. They were so bloodshot that you could actually see the bulge of the veins in his eyeballs. "Fucking PAXTON," he screeched, heaving himself upward to the ceiling with virtually no effort, "I'm fucking Bill motherfucking Paxton, fucker." The snaps on his boots released, and he half-somersaulted to the ground below without a sound. He moved like a ninja in an action movie--it was all just too streamlined to be real. The blood was rapidly draining from his head now that he was upright, and as it filtered down through his torso you could actually see every single artery filling like an intricate network of tiny snakes digesting.
"You look a lot... uh... less crazy on TV." "Why are you on my ceiling, Bill Paxton?" I asked what I thought to be a reasonable question. "This is how I sleep, fuckin' fuckknocker! The single greatest flaw in human existence is the horizontal sleeping position. It reduces bloodflow to the brain and starves the blood cells of oxygen. Every single night that I sleep like this, I gain two IQ points. When last measured, I had an IQ of 735. I fuckin' invented yogurt, you bag of fucks." I began to shrink back timidly, but reminded myself of my new mantra. "Conan!" I told him matter-of-factly, "what is best in life? To crush your enemies, see them driven before you and to hear the lamentation of their women." "What are you, some of kind of fuckin' retard? Why do you keep saying that?" He began edging toward the kitchen, as if to flee. Easily the best part of my life so far was finding Bill Paxton hung in my living room, and so, anxious to please him, I decided to stop speaking the phrase aloud.