If we are to believe everything we see on our Le Tube d’Boob these days, then we are supposed to now be scared shitless that the beds we sleep in are slowly trying to kill us and/or end your marraige, not particularly in that order, and not that either is a bad thing for most people, but let’s continue.
It’s not a quick, overnight, magical killing, no, it’s a long, slow, torturous, water dripping on forehead kind of insanity, not to be CONFUSED with marraige, but the one that could possibly end it. Because our beds are so horrifically uncomfortable and in most cases filled with quicksand, jagged boulders, and the moaning spirits of insomniacs from Xmas past, there is no way that a good night’s sleep will ever be in any of our immediate futures. First the insomnia kicks in, then your back goes, tossing and turning creates the need for your partner to sleep in a different bed, then the snoring, which then escalates into sleeping in seperate rooms, the arguing the bickering and the the complete decomposition of any sort of “makin’ whoopie”. And in that, the obvious demographic targeted for such an utter waste of money has been selected. Let the credit card annihilation begin.
Now that was some convincing theatre. Doesn’t that make you wanna run out and drop $4k on a miracle bed? It sure does for me. But you know who that commercial didn’t fool? The late Osama Bin Laden. That’s right folks, this man knew a thing or four about slumber comfort. He had his sleep number down pat. He is the one sole person that completely debunks any claims that Sleep Number Beds make. Osama spent the last 10 years frolicking in the desserts, hiding out from one cave to the next, then moved up to shacks, and ended up in a million dollar fortress, but did he have a Sleep Number Bed? NO! Could he afford one? Yes! Now granted he didn’t have electricity to run the damn thing, but that’s a moot point. If anyone needed this cushion cloud to sleep on, I’d bet my beat-up futon mattress that it would be Osama, but he didn’t. He didn’t have back pain, his love life didn’t digress, in fact this sleep discomfort avoider had approximately four wives with up to twenty-five offspring with them. There was no mattress getting in his libido’s way, no sir! And up until the very bitter end, his wife, who slept with him on their cardboard mattress defended him to the death, no snoring or tossing and turning was going to “force” her to sleep in another room.
Maybe we overprivileged Americans should go spend a week in the forest, sleep on the ground, cook over a fire, bathe in a lake and realize how fucking good we actually have it, and when we return to our “regular” murderous bed, we should give it a big hug and give Sleep Number the finger.
Ok everyone, it’s safe to come outside now. We can now all go back to our regularly scheduled lives. Didn’t you hear? The boogie man is dead. Yeah!! He was all shot up in the head yesterday and then thrown in the ocean. Dead! Done! So now we’re all completely safe once again. Doesn’t it feel good, kinda like a Snuggle Fabric Softener commercial?
Haven’t you ever seen Friday the 13th? Dude ain’t dead! He’ll sink to the bottom of the ocean, bump up against some high voltage cable, his fingers will start twitching and he’ll emerge on the banks of some summer-camp lake late at night, fashion a turban mask and hide out in an abandoned cabin and wait to avenge his death on unsuspecting teen partiers lookin’ for a place to play “hide the weasel”.
THE BAD GUY NEVER DIES! It’s a metaphor folks, that’s just how it works. So if you now think all is well in the world because the Prez-o, the media and all your friends at work say it is because the machete wielding, hockey masked legend of the lake is dead, then may I suggest you think again. You can stab him, you can put an axe in his head, empale him on a fence post, track him down in the middle of a goddamn desert behind eighteen foot high barbed-wire walls, two security
gates, shoot him in the head, drag his body out to sea and dump him to the depths where King Triton rules over all sea creatures. No matter what you do, the body lying on the ground is going to creepily sit straight up with some scary ass orchestra music and return to kill next summer at a theatre near you.