Like everyone’s surrealist hopes and dreams, there’s an implicit premise of speaking truth, reveal the latent subject, the myths of a culture embedded in the juxtaposition of subjects, making us each an interpreter of dreams. The political and religious narratives assembled are ostensibly satire, putting them at one end of the political spectrum but establishing any sense or evidence in the Fantasia-mire ends up reasoning the Farrah Fawcett wig atop a tank. Pop was always about Freudian dreams, now it’s literalized. Get out your talking cures.