Boy, I have absolutely nothing to write about right now. It’s never a good idea for me to just hit “New Post” and start typing whatever, but what good did a good idea ever do anybody? You still die penniless and alone. That’s the bottom line.
How about we talk about my shitty bed? Yes, the riotously uncomfortable rectangle of agony that my wife and I find ourselves struggling to balance our bodies upon each and every evening. Our bed sucks maggot-riddled dung out of the weathered rectum of William S. Burroughs’ putrid corpse. This doesn’t make trying to sleep on it any easier, believe you me. How our bed managed to rob William S. Burroughs’ grave is mind-boggling in and of itself, but you try relaxing on a rickety boxspring that’s constantly in the act of administering analingus to a decaying beatnik. I’m trying to tell you that I don’t have a nice bed.
Buying a bed is a big deal, and we’ve been putting it off for a long time. We actually slept on the floor for upwards of two years before “lucking” into the ramshackle nightmare we currently retire to when hay-hitting time draws nigh, and part of me would like to throw our current bed out the window and go back to that stage of life. I don’t wanna go to the bed store. I don’t wanna talk to a bed salesman. I don’t wanna pay hundreds or thousands of dollars for something that doesn’t emit interactive computerized images. Plus what do we do with the old bed when the bed store guys bring the new bed? Are the bed store guys gonna take it for us? And what of these bed store guys? Do I have to say stuff to them? Do I have to give them ten dollars? Is that enough? Will they want twenty dollars? I don’t want them to have twenty dollars. I want that money for me. Are they gonna say bad stuff about our apartment when they get back in the truck? I don’t want them to do that. That hurts my feelings. And what if we spend eight googolplex dollars on a bed that turns out to suck even grosser shit out of an even deader person’s asshole? At least when you sleep on the floor you don’t have all these frightening quandries to deal with. No money needs to change hands, no strangers need to be contacted. It’s just you and the floor.
Why do so many facets of life improvement require that you speak and surrender income to people you’ve never met before and have no reason to trust? The bed salesman only wants to take my money. Whether or not I get a good night’s sleep is immaterial to the expansion of his bank account. I worked hard for that money. All the bed salesman did was happen to gain access to a building with a bunch of beds in it. I would be comfortable paying twenty-five dollars for a bed, and iffy but begrudgingly agreeable about forking over fifty. I understand that beds cost more than twenty-five dollars and this is befuddling and unacceptable to me.
I am also worried about having to dispose of our current bed once and if we get a new one. If the terrifying bed laborers don’t elect to carry it out of our apartment, what then? We cannot have two beds; that is insane. We cannot lift the mattress and boxspring ourselves and carry them downstairs to the car, then transport them to a suitable disposal site; that is hard. The only thing I can think of to do is make some kind of art out of it, like chop it up with an axe and maybe pour some paint all over it and call it “Consumerism” or something. That could take up space in that area of the room in front of the closet currently occupied by dirty clothes, and then we could squash all the dirty clothes under the new bed, which is nice because then you just wake up, reach your arm underneath the bed, and pull out your outfit for the day. All right, now that I have a plan, it’s probably time to take the bed-buying plunge. After all, beds don’t buy themselves. They don’t have any money because no one will hire them in this economy.
Well, what beds are there for me to buy? Let’s Google some beds!
Say, that’s a pip of a bed! And if you get thirsty for orange juice in the middle of the night as I tend to do, you can just convince your partner to help you rock the thing back and forth until you’re rolling down the hall into the kitchen, slick as you please! That featureless endtable isn’t doing anyone any favors, though. Also plants don’t belong in the bedroom, or for that matter in the house. They require assistance to continue living. You think I need that shit on my conscience 24-7? I’m trying to relax on my bed!
Oh jeez! Oh, ah ha haaah! Oh no! This guy’s bed is a cheeseburger! That’s certifiable. Makes you wonder if he goes to McDonald’s and orders tiny beds to eat! That thing is probably pretty cozy for people who don’t have any women. Like being eaten by a giant bottom with cheese in it every night. Can you take the pickle slice out and use that for a pillow, I’m wondering right now? It’s a little fun to think about the day this guy moved into his new apartment, and one of his new roommates walks by his room on the way to the bathroom and happens to see through the slightly ajar door that the new guy is setting up a giant cheeseburger bed, whistling with homey contentment. I bet that guy peed really fast so he could run back to the living room and tell the other roomie about the cheeseburger bed. And that was only the beginning! Man, that Andy certainly was a character. Whatever happened to him?
Hey, I like this! Putting aside the yucky fake wood look of the exterior, I could sleep nicely in a shallow padded box with a staircase. Plus apparently there’s speakers in this thing so you can mellow out to soothing tunes which course through your prone body while you set about taking the A-train to Snoozetown. That “Tonight I Need Your Sweet Caress” song would feel sexily relaxing in this bed, I bet. (Jesus, I think about that song all the time. Why? It doesn’t benefit me.) Dude, you could totally get baked and put some Pink Floyd in this bed and lie down and be like awwwwwwwwwww shit dude.
I’m not even completely sure what’s happening in this picture, but I laugh every time I look at it. The look on that gentleman’s face tells me that is exactly what he’s always wanted in a bed, and now that he finally has it he will live out the remainder of his days in pure, unkillable bliss. We can learn a lot from this man if only we could open our hearts, souls, minds, and other openable things we probably have that only this guy with the fucked up tree bed seems to know about.
This is a snazzy, space-saving concept in theory, but what happens when you’re tippity-typing away at your laptop, putting the finishing touches on a “tweet” that succintly manages to both inform and entertain, and something unhooks on your fancy ceiling bed and crashes down and FUCKING KILLS YOU? What then, Mr. Bed Version of Frank Lloyd Wright? I still think this is pretty cool, but I couldn’t get any real computing done under that thing while in such constant awareness of my own mortality.
Heh. I guess I can understand the desire to want to make a badass bed, but that is the most approachable skull and crossbones I’ve ever seen. That skull is genuinely happy to make your acquaintance. “How are you doing today?” asks that skull. “I hope your day is going as swimmingly as my own. Would you like to come to my house and play a fun board game and have some good-tasting snacks?” That’s the skull of someone who just found out that a package they’ve been waiting for from Amazon came in the mail. There is no death or danger in that emblem, just contentment and goodwill, and those are superb qualities to have in a bed, I should think. Yes, I think this is the bed for me. Wrap it up, bed peddler (beddler?), I’ll take it.
There you go. Six pictures and 15-20 lame bed jokes. Don’t ever say I never gave you nothin’.