what happens when TV collides with my friends

A dream from Monday Night:
I'm looking for the registration desk in a London hotel with claustrophobic but very mod cylindrical elevators. One of them closes in on me; at first it's alarming, but then I realize that it's just a big, self-cinching corset. I run into corivax, who says, "We need a fourth for our Olympic bobsled team. Come on!"
"I haven't trained for it, though."
"We haven't trained much either. Here. Put this makeup on so they won't think you're a guy."
So I put the makeup on and go along with it, and we're at an indoor (?!) bobsled run, moving the sled back and forth as bobsledders do right before they start, just a few seconds from starting, when an official sitting behind a table at the bottom of the run shouts that we're disqualified. It isn't because of me; it's because we started moving our sled too soon. Corivax stands up and yells, "The Russians are stupid!"

bientot says this is Freudian, but I suspect that it's just too dumb to be associated with such an august quack.