Dear Dr. Shill,
 
I had a dream last week that was so troubling I’ve had a difficult time sleeping ever since.  In it, I’m waiting in line with a number of people my age (I’m 77 years old) to meet my favorite actor Wilford Brimley, who is signing copies of his new autobiography.  What should be a happy occasion however is deflated some by the grim, even mean looking bookstore employees who are surrounding us dressed in black clothes and big black boots.  Strangely, I see two of my grandchildren amongst these employees and wave, but they just stare icily back, a pair of menacing smirks on their lips. Then, at the front of the line my son Michael and his wife Denise are standing by the closed door of the room Mr. Brimley is in, letting six of us ‘old buzzards’ (as they contemptuously put it) in at a time.  When my turn comes, I’m shoved with five others into the room - which proves to be a large closet containing a mannequin with a big bushy white moustache and a top hat sitting at a card table - and as someone shouts “Hey, that’s not Wilford Brimley! What’s the gag?” a couple of smoking canisters fall from the ceiling and we all choke to death.  Oh please Dr. Shill, can you help shed some light on this dream?  What could it mean?
 
Old and Frightened in Milwaukee
 
Dear Old and Frightened,
 
The symbolism in your dream really isn’t that difficult to decipher.  In fact, it’s pretty obvious.  The old people represent old, stale beer you and your family have grown fed up with and are looking to eliminate from your lives forever.  Now the fact that you include yourself amongst the insipid rabble being put to death suggests you are harboring a guilty conscience on the issue, perhaps due to years of contributing to the problem by buying such inferior quality beer from the grocery store.  But fear not, for you can find redemption in switching to Budweiser beer because Budweiser is guaranteed fresh with a special ‘born on’ date on every can and bottle to prove it! - Dr. S

Dear Dr. Shill,
 
I’ve been having a number of peculiar dreams as of late where someone who is my spitting image and answers to my name (my “double” if you will) is running around town, masquerading as me, sullying my reputation by behaving like an utter rogue.  In one dream he arrives at a social function arranged by the wife of a superior official at my place of employment wearing an unfashionable hat bearing the emblem of a local sporting franchise while in another he requests a bottle of catsup from the waiter while dining with my wife, then proceeds to replace the lid himself upon finishing with it.  I pray your assistance in providing elucidation to this matter is forthcoming.
 
Faithfully yours,
Sir Randolph Templeton